


The Sufficient Cause

by mightymads



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Jim's mom and brother are decent folks, M/M, McCoy knows, Mutual Pining, POV Spock, Slow Build, Spock Prime the matchmaker, Spontaneous formation of a mind-link, Triumvirate, Vulcan language and culture, post-STID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3696287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soon after returning to the post of First Officer, Spock realized why his older counterpart had prompted him to stay on the Enterprise. However, in the course of service it also became clear to him that friendship with the captain would impair their efficiency as a command team. Nearly losing Jim to Khan’s rampage a year later makes Spock reconsider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by discussions with Cate Adams and all awesome works out there.

A pungent smoke rises over a crippled San Francisco. Recovery efforts and evacuation continue, wail of sirens piercing the chilly morning air. Capturing Khan can hardly be considered a successful conclusion of the mission, not when so many lives are lost. Spock’s own remorse and a constant onslaught of emotional tumult from all over the city against his strained shields add to a deep-set fatigue, dragging him down, making every step forced. He has to admit that a Human expression ‘bone-tired’ is quite accurate.

Having being debriefed by Starfleet Internal Affairs, Spock beamed up to Starbase 1 where the Enterprise had been safely docked and spent the rest of the day and the night there, supervising damage assessment and initial repairs of the ship. At 0320 hours came a comm message from Doctor McCoy that the preparation of serum was finished, and it had the effect they all had hoped for—the captain’s life signs returned. Spock requested updates on Jim’s condition since then, but received only a terse “He’s stabilized, stop pestering me” 45.6 minutes ago. 

Ambulance hovercars keep delivering the injured when Spock enters Starfleet Medical. The hospital is functioning at its peak capacity: teams of doctors and nurses are taking stretchers with patients to the surgery department; people with less severe wounds are being treated in the clinic section, there is an incessant flow to and from examination rooms; comm units are constantly ringing at the front desk while its personnel is barely coping with an immense amount of information—everything is a flurry of motion and a cacophony of sounds.

The restricted area, located in the left wing of the building, is quiet. Spock passes the security post, walks into the ICU and asks a nurse if it is possible to see the captain. She shows him into a secluded ward.

The man on the biobed looks very young and fragile, utterly defenseless without his energy and audacity. Jim. His face is ashen, half-hidden behind the breathing mask, vitals are off the charts, but his hand is warm to the touch. No more barriers. The link, which broke when they were separated by the glass, forms again, its tendrils entwine, expanding into a familiar presence in Spock’s mind. The thin thread is mute and dark, yet it serves as one more proof that Jim is alive. Spock loses the track of time, just standing by the bedside and simply relishing Jim’s closeness. After a while, he hears the door open and soft steps approach.

“Good god, you look terrible,” says a tired voice with a Southern drawl. “I bet you’ve been up since yesterday without a morsel of food.”

“So have you,” Spock returns impassively as McCoy comes to the foot of the biobed.

“I think I had some coffee,” McCoy rakes his fingers through his mussed brown hair. The hazel eyes gaze pointedly at Spock’s hand which covers Jim’s. Spock finds that he does not care.

“It’s still difficult to make a long-term prognosis, but the regeneration rate of marrow and tissues is amazing,” the doctor answers an unspoken question. “Respiratory activity and cardiac function are gradually normalizing; I think soon he’ll be able to do without the life support.”

“It is most gratifying to know,” Spock’s tone is carefully level. “What is the further plan of treatment?”

“Along with adjuvant therapy, all we can do now is wait,” McCoy says with a frown. “That’s why you’d better go get some rest.”

“While I appreciate your concern, Doctor, you cannot give advice that you don’t follow yourself,” Spock raises his eyebrow.

“Aw, don’t worry, my shift ends in twenty minutes,” McCoy scoffs. “Then I’ll have a decent meal and a much needed shut-eye. Won’t be of much help to my patients in a zombie-like state.”

“Vulcans can withstand long periods without sleep or sustenance if necessary,” Spock counters.

“What is necessary, Spock, is that you run the ship with a clear head in Jim’s absence,” the doctor snaps back, obviously becoming irritated. He sighs, rubs a hand over his face and continues more calmly, “Listen, it’s not as if you can’t come later, when you don’t look like you’re about to collapse.”

“Very well,” Spock gives in. It’s not the time or place to argue, and perhaps the good doctor does have a point. With a final glance at Jim, he turns and leaves.

 

There is still much to be done before the meeting with Starfleet Command which is scheduled in 3.7 hours. Therefore, Spock heads to HQ, takes nourishment at the mess and reserves an office to work. A comprehensive ship status report and a preliminary plan of extensive repairs are to be finished before the meeting; additionally, the crew shift roster needs an adjustment since replacements for casualties have been recently provided.

But first, meditation is in order. Windows switched to opaque mode and lights dimmed, Spock lowers himself into a chair and folds his hands together with two first fingers extended. Listening to his breath, he lets his mind flow and starts with simple relaxation techniques. _Wh'ltri_ , which is usually done at the initial and the final stages of a session, is especially welcome in his disordered state.

His consciousness is drifting over the material world, letting go of its heaviness and some of the fatigue with it, then slowly descends to a deeper level, analyzing the gruesome events of the past 48 hours, until it confronts _koh-nar_ , the source of a gnawing emotional pain. Keeping distance from Jim was a profound mistake. Like before, Spock discarded an integral part of his life, realizing its value only when it was too late. Never saying to Mother he loved her, not visiting his homeworld when he could, not telling his _t’hy’la_ of the link, denying him the right to decide. Instead, believing that he chooses the best course of action, Spock decided for them both. A growing affection to the captain was ruthlessly subdued, interactions kept strictly professional while all Jim’s attempts to reach out rejected. However, the Human persisted, seeming to have an inherent feeling of their connection. Jim has always trusted his instincts whereas Spock learned long ago to disregard his own in favor of rational reasons. Only no reasons, no logic—nothing matters without Jim. He knows it now. Fear, rage, desperation are smothering him again as he remembers Jim’s eyes, full of regret, the last farewell on his pale lips…

A ragged gasp escapes Spock’s lungs, and his sight comes in focus. _V’ree’lat_ has failed. His time sense indicates that one hour has passed; work on the current tasks should be resumed.

Afterwards, the outcome of the meeting is satisfactory: Command approves his plan, and Spock returns to the Enterprise to finalize it with the input from the ship’s senior staff. Throughout the day, he continues to make queries about the captain’s health. Thankfully, Doctor M’Benga has a more conscientious attitude towards his inbox, diligently responding in detail and eventually suggesting an ingenious idea of feeding data from Jim’s biobed monitors directly to Spock’s PADD.

Spock longs to be by Jim’s side, but discussions of the repairs last well into the evening, and he does not allow personal wishes to affect his work. Hours are dragging on very slowly. Since there are no temporal anomalies in this sector of space, his perception is erroneous and illogical. Finally, all points covered and department heads dismissed, Spock can retreat to his quarters to incorporate the resulting solutions into the master plan, then he intends to beam down to the hospital again. Mindful of Doctor McCoy’s recalcitrance, he makes a detour to the mess hall and gets takeout—a mere thought of staying in a public place is off-putting.

He has just had a late dinner when the door chimes. It may be some urgent issue regarding the ship, so Spock suppresses a flicker of displeasure at being disturbed and calls, “Come in.”

“Do you have a minute?” Nyota asks, entering the room.

Spock feels a pang of uneasiness. He has barely spoken with her from the previous day, did not even ask of her well-being. Several times during the meeting he would notice her watching him with concern. He should have sought her out to provide reassurance. 

“Of course,” he says, rising from the table and coming out to greet her.

“Only wanted to make sure you’re alright,” she gives him a small smile.

“I am fine, Nyota,” Spock tells her gently. “How have you been?”

“Oh, I’m managing—you know of all the chaos that’s going on right now,” Nyota huffs and waves her hand in mock exasperation, then her expression grows serious as she raises her obsidian eyes, gazing directly into Spock’s. “What’s more, you’re trying to sort everything out at once. You look haggard.”

The touch of her palm to his face is tender, but there is something wrong, invasive about it. Recoiling from it involuntarily, Spock becomes aware with astonishment that he finds it unwelcome. Nyota is startled as well and covers her confusion with another tentative smile.

“Well, at least you don’t starve yourself like you tend to do during a crisis,” she tilts her head towards the table. “Anyway, please, do take breaks sometimes, even though the circumstances are pressing.”

“I was going to visit the captain, actually,” Spock says quietly.

“Good. Tell him hello from me,” Nyota nods.

They fall silent for a moment, haunted by the memory of the warp core and the sense of finality, gaping emptiness. Nyota makes an audible inhale, struggling to hold back tears.

“He’s…” her voice falters, “he’s bound to make it or I’ll kick his ass.”

Spock marvels yet again at the Human propensity to use humor as a means of deflection or coping. Over the past year there were many opportunities to observe this tactic which was often utilized by the captain. It worked well with the crew.

“That will undoubtedly motivate him to get well as soon as possible,” he agrees.

“For sure,” Nyota laughs faintly, unshed tears still glistening in her eyes. She clears her throat and adds in a more composed manner, “I’d love to go with you and check in on him again, but you have more chances alone. Maybe McCoy will make an exception for you.”

“An exception?” Spock repeats, perplexed. “Clarify.”

“I thought you knew,” Nyota furrows her brow. “Apart from the family, no visitors are allowed.”

The news alerts Spock immediately. What could have possibly happened? Why was not he informed of that?

“Has the captain’s state worsened?” he demands, snatching his PADD from the table and studying the captain’s readings. “The data does not reflect it, however.”

“No, nothing of the sort,” Nyota says hurriedly. “It’s just too many people wished to see him. When I was there, M’Benga limited visiting for each person to five minutes. McCoy, who came back around that time, turned livid and forbade visits from the crew altogether, saying that there were enough germs in the room which was supposed to be clean.”

This does not alleviate Spock’s alarm in the slightest; he grabs a communicator and flips it open.

“Spock to McCoy.”

He is quite ready to beam down momentarily and find McCoy if the doctor does not answer. At first there is only static, but then a grumbling voice comes through, “McCoy here.”

“Is the sanitation field in the captain’s ward compromised?” Spock asks without preamble.

“Huh? What makes you think that?” McCoy sounds surprised.

“You mentioned contamination of the ambient microflora.”

“Rest assured, there is none. It was damn possible, though, with half the ship loiterin’ here! It’s a hospital, not a lounge bar. The kid must recuperate in proper conditions.”

“Understood. Spock out,” Spock closes the communicator, relieved, and turns to Nyota. “In this case I shall stay. The captain requires rest”.

“You too, so I’ll get going,” Nyota says. She leans forward to kiss him on the cheek, but stops mid-motion and murmurs instead, “Don’t push yourself too hard, okay?”

Spock stares at the doors for 5.7 seconds after she is gone. Something has indefinably changed between them, however, he has no will to ponder over the fact. With a resolve to meditate on it later, he clears the remainders of his meal from the table, contemplating whether the master plan should be reviewed once more. Suddenly weariness overcomes him, leaving no other alternative except for postponing the work until the morning. Having taken a quick sonic shower, Spock trudges to the bed and orders the lights off. As soon as his head comes in contact with the pillow, he falls into leaden sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wh'ltri - meditation in general, or, the simplest of Vulcan meditation technique  
> koh-nar - emotional vunerability; feeling of being completely exposed in some way  
> v'ree'lat - "searching/sorting"; to order one's thoughts and clear one's mind
> 
> (Vulcan Language Dictionary)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's gonna be some Vulcan language now and then. You can hover your mouse pointer over the sentence to see a translation. If your device does not support it, all translations will be in the notes after the chapter. I stole this great idea of 'simultaneous' translation from eimeo.

Medics put Khan’s unconscious body on a stretcher and take him away. Spock steps down from the transporter pad to follow them, but when he exits the transporter room there is no one around. Corridors of the Enterprise are strangely empty. As he walks to sickbay, it’s becoming dimmer and colder; environmental controls must be failing. It is necessary to contact Mister Scott on this matter and ensure relocation of all patients and personnel from sickbay to Starfleet Medical.

Soon his breath is coming out in clouds, his extremities are getting numb, and he starts to shiver in his standard-issue uniform. Spock tries to regulate his body temperature, but can barely keep his teeth from chattering. There should be an intercom at this junction—he reaches out, and instead of a wall panel his fingers meet ice: it is not the Enterprise corridor anymore, it is a tunnel, probably underground, probably in a mountain. At any rate, it is logical to find out where it leads.

Sounds of his steps are echoing hollowly; the tunnel is lit by an unnatural bluish glow which spreads from an unknown source. Approximately 99.7 meters ahead there is an opening of a cave. Clenching his fists in an attempt to return some sensibility to his hands, Spock heads there.

In the middle of the cave there is an elevated area covered by a glass dome. Anxiety spikes in him when he sees Jim inside, lying on a pallet, apparently asleep or unconscious.

“Jim! Jim!” Spock yells, but to no avail: Jim does not make a single move, his supine figure already stiff with cold. It is imperative to break through, to resuscitate him, quickly. Overwhelmed with panic, Spock starts hammering on the thick glass with all his might.

“You left him…” the Whisperer, unseen and omnipresent, hisses into his ear, “it is your fault… your fault…”

“Jim! Jim, JIM!” Spock is screaming himself hoarse now; his knees give out and he sinks down to the floor, powerless. Jim can’t hear him, can’t respond to him. Jim is dead.

Spock wakes up in his dark quarters, gulping for air, heart pounding in his side. A ringing silence, undisturbed by the customary humming of engines, is oppressive. Instinctively, he grasps for the link in his mind—it is there: dormant, quiet, but there.

“Lights to thirty percent,” he croaks.

Picking up his PADD from the headboard shelf, Spock checks the captain’s vitals again, there is no significant change in them. The clock in the corner of the PADD screen shows 0145 hours. The PADD brushed aside, he gets up and changes from his sleeping robe into the uniform.

 

Although Starfleet Medical is still experiencing a large influx of patients, the general situation is not as dire as yesterday. Spock takes the familiar route; when he comes to the restricted area, two security officers bar his way.

“Sorry, sir, no visits from the crew as per Doctor McCoy’s instructions,” says one of them.

With a small sigh, Spock reaches for the communicator. At this moment the doors slide sideways and reveal Doctor McCoy striding out. Having noticed Spock, he pauses and scowls, but before Spock opens his mouth to speak, the doctor tells the security officers curtly, “Okay, let him in.”

This is a fortunate turn of events, albeit unexpected. Spock does not let his musings show on his face.

“Doctor,” he nods slightly and proceeds into the ICU.

“Insufferable hobgoblins,” McCoy mutters.

Coming into the captain’s ward, Spock sees another visitor. His older self is standing by the biobed, the Ambassador’s posture uncharacteristically hunched, head bowed. His eyes are riveted on the captain with an anguished, devastated expression in them. Such a blatant display of emotion is disconcerting, but Spock abstains from reprehending thoughts—his own loss of control has been more prominent.  

“Elder.”

“Mr. Spock,” the Ambassador straightens himself up, a veneer of equanimity back in place again as he meets Spock’s gaze.

“Since when are you considered as the family?” Spock inquires.

“Doctor McCoy is not without mercy,” the Elder says with a hint of a sad smile. “I arrived as soon as my duties in the Colony allowed.”

His withered fingers are touching Jim’s forearm lightly, which Spock does not like at all. He walks to the other side of the biobed and clasps Jim’s hand in his own. The Ambassador instantly steps back.

“I take it the link has already formed.”

Spock stiffens. This conversation was inevitable; there is no point in avoiding it, for in fact it is necessary. Despite that, he is rather reluctant to discuss private matters with his older counterpart and braces himself before replying.

“It must have occurred during the Battle of Earth,” he starts slowly. “Fascinating, is it not? The link was forged while we fought side by side, akin to warriors in the Age of Antiquity. I discovered it shortly after returning to serve on the Enterprise: due to Jim’s immediate proximity it strengthened enough to manifest itself.”

The Elder is examining him with an air of scientific curiosity—this familiar feeling when an experiment went in a somewhat surprising, but intriguing direction. A curious phenomenon indeed: two elements formed a bond faster than it had been anticipated due to circumstances acting as a catalyst. The reagents were placed in the same environment with a precise calculation, simple and elegant, almost poetic.

“So this was your intent when you encouraged me to stay,” Spock makes no effort to keep defiance from his tone. “ _Du heh James Kirk t’du—vesht nam-tor telsular._”

The odds that it is the truth are 96.8 to 1: the Elder’s pupils dilate with shock and his thin lips press into a line. Is he going to cite his vow of non-interference now? It would be illogical if not hypocritical since his actions have already contradicted it quite explicitly.  

A tense silence descends upon the room as they stare at each other.

“ _Ha,_” the Ambassador yields wearily at last. “ _Sanu, ken’uh. Vesht tan-tor nash-veh dvel na’du._”

“What kind of choice are you talking about? You wanted me to follow your steps,” Spock objects with indignation.

“You had to learn what you are to each other,” his older self insists. “Whether or not to act on the knowledge is for you to decide. It is believed that _t’hylara_ are eventually drawn to one path—providing they live, of course. I didn’t want you to lose so much time and take such a great risk.”

What would have happened without the advice his counterpart gave him in the shuttle hangar? What if Spock had pursued the choice made by himself? He would not have been on the Enterprise, Khan would have escaped, and Jim…

“You were correct,” Spock casts down his eyes. “ _Ek’klem na’odu._”

“Yet you appear to be bitter,” the Elder says, his intonation delicate. “May I ask why?”

Now their positions are reversed: it is Spock’s turn to suppress an unseemly impulse to evade a candid answer or to mislead with a half-truth. Lying is unbecoming of a Vulcan. _In for a penny, in for a pound_ as Terrans put it.

“Jim does not know,” Spock breathes out. “I wronged him immensely. I presumed that if we became more attached as friends his judgment would be subjective. He already risked his life during the missions to rescue me. Knowing of the mindlink, he could have endangered the ship and the crew one day. However, the events on Nibiru proved my precautions futile: he did it anyway.”

“He never abandons anyone,” the Ambassador murmurs.

Spock finally dares to look up at him.

“I admit that before you confirmed my conjecture, I could not imagine there was a probability of the captain choosing to commit himself to a monogamous relationship, especially this type of bond—its power is simply beyond comparison with a marital bond most common among our people. Even for me such degree of intimacy was unthinkable. Nowadays only few go as far as to complete the _t’hy’la_ bond on those rare occasions it is found.”

“You needn’t justify yourself in front of me,” his older self sighs. It is obvious that he knows these arguments all too well. “Whatever decision you make, you should make it together, as tradition requires. Jim has the right to know.”

“I shall tell him, it is a debt long overdue.”

Spock traces a caress over Jim’s cheek with two extended fingers. How foolish his assumption had been. If there had been any chance Jim would want to complete the bond, had Spock himself thought of it without preconception, he could have been with Jim at that time notwithstanding the physical boundaries, could have shared his pain instead of watching helplessly when Jim was so scared and alone in his mind.

“It does not seem that unthinkable anymore,” the Elder observes.

“No, it does not,” Spock says in barely more than a whisper. “Nevertheless, it is of no consequence. He will never forgive me.”

“Why are you so certain?” follows a soft reply.

 

“Well I’ll be damned!”

Spock comes to with a start. When his older counterpart left, he took a chair and sat beside the bed, planning to stay with Jim for thirty minutes more, but evidently fell asleep.

“Doctor, there is no need to raise your voice,” Spock says, mildly annoyed. The remark produces no result on McCoy, who continues expressing his disapproval at the same volume.

“You’re out of your Vulcan mind! What part of ‘go get some rest’ did you not understand? Why in blue blazes –”

The doctor suddenly stops in the middle of his tirade, eyes trained on his hand scanner with which he was taking readings just before.

“Strange…” he drawls and glances over his shoulder at the monitor on the wall. “Jim’s brain activity has considerably improved. There was a similar surge yesterday morning. It’s not that I’m not glad about it, but… are you messing with my treatment?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” McCoy glares at Spock. “Are you doing some Vulcan mumbo-jumbo to him?”

“I am not,” Spock answers flatly.

“Really? Because if I’m not aware of what’s going on –”

“I assure you, Doctor, no interference took place from my part.”

“Alright then,” McCoy concedes. “Maybe telepathy works as some sort of stimulation without your conscious effort, and this time the kid was under a stereo effect from two Spocks. Anyhow, it seems like your company does him good.”

Although Jim is still very pale, there is more color in his complexion. Spock shifts his gaze to the monitor: the brain activity has indeed improved by 20.8 percent. The link must be carrying a strong psionic resonance despite its nascent state.

“May I visit the captain on a regular basis?” he asks, standing up and straightening his tunic.

“You may,” McCoy grunts, absorbed in data on auxiliary monitors. “If it helps Jim get better you may even sleep here for all I care.”

 

Back on the Enterprise, after going through the morning routine in his quarters, Spock recommences working on repairs and documentation. He intends to speak with Nyota later on, but a chance to do so never presents itself—a major breakdown of gravity systems occurs at 1140. Restoring their partial functionality requires 3.5 hours and combined endeavors of the whole Engineering and Science departments with the input from the starbase technicians as well. Elimination of all malfunctions in the hardware takes additional 4.2 hours, and then Mister Scott detains him for 2.7 hours more to discuss possible modifications which can optimize reliability and operation speed of the main ship systems.

At that point Spock wishes only to see Jim again, so once his duties are completed, he goes directly to Starfleet Medical. Jim’s presence is soothing, it anchors Spock in a way he never thought it did. Listening to Jim’s steady breath, he feels safe and at peace, gradually falling into a light meditative state.

During a ward round, Doctor McCoy runs his hand scanner over Spock and consequently forces him to dine in the hospital cafeteria (“You’ll have your dinner I said or I’ll catch you off-guard and knock you out with a hypo, then order to feed you intravenously!”). Upon returning, Spock spends the rest of the night in the chair at Jim’s bedside.

The next day Nyota is too preoccupied with the scheduled alignment of communication circuits whereas Spock finishes his tasks earlier than usual: the maintenance has been fully launched, and its coordination can be carried out remotely, therefore his attendance on the ship is not required until tomorrow when the first status reports from department heads are to be ready.

At 1637 hours Spock is in front of the captain’s ward. He pushes the door open and stops in his tracks—a middle-aged blonde woman is stooping over the biobed, clutching Jim’s hand in both of her own. There are dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes, her face is lined with distress, but her jaw is set as if she is doing her utmost to remain calm. Her long wavy hair is pulled back in a bun, she wears a Starfleet uniform of Ops division; sleeve stripes show the rank of Commander. Sensing that she is being watched, the woman turns.

“My apologies, I shall come at another time,” Spock murmurs and is about to leave, but hears her calling after him.

“Wait! You must be Spock. Please stay, you’re not intruding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Whisperer - Tyr-al-tep, the personification of guilt  
> Du heh James Kirk t’du – vesht nam-tor telsular. - You and your James Kirk – you were bondmates.  
> Ha. Sanu, ken’uh. Vesht tan-tor nash-veh dvel na’du. - Yes. Please understand. I gave you a choice.  
> Ek’klem na’odu. - Thank you. (Lit. All gratitude to you – a formal way of offering gratitude, implicitly refers to emotions of the grateful party and is rarely heard in the normal course of Vulcan life /korsaya.org/)
> 
> Translations into Vulcan were made with the help of information from Vulcan Language Dictionary, Vulcan Language Institute and korsaya.org. A huge respect and gratitude to the founders and developers of these wonderful resources!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter mentions one episode of Jim having been beaten in his childhood by his uncle.

With some hesitation Spock walks in and proceeds to the opposite side from her.

“I’m Winona, Jim’s mom,” the woman says, corners of her mouth curving briefly in a feeble smile.

So he concluded—Commander Winona Kirk, Chief Engineer of the USS Potemkin which arrived and docked at the starbase this morning, having apparently interrupted its deep space mission.

“Commander Kirk,” Spock inclines his head.

Winona gazes at him, emotions in her green-gray eyes intense.

“I owe you my son’s life. If it wasn’t for you, Doctor McCoy and Miss Uhura… thank you so much.”

Perhaps the ability to render him speechless is a family trait because Spock finds himself completely at a loss what to answer.

“All of us hold the captain—Jim—in the highest regard, Commander,” he manages. “It was logical to make every endeavor.”

“Jim has devoted friends. It's such a blessing. And please, call me Winona. I feel like we’ve been acquainted for a very long time: Jim constantly speaks of you.”

“I am afraid that addressing you by your given name wouldn’t be quite respectful.” 

“Then Mrs. Kirk will do,” she smiles faintly.

They both look at Jim in silence. Winona lets go of Jim’s hand and runs her fingers through his hair to smooth a stray lock. She sighs and starts speaking quietly, as though to herself.

“He was born tiny, premature; his birthday should’ve been in the end of March, it’s January 4 instead. I’ve been always overprotective of him and was mad at Pike for talking Jim into joining Starfleet. But trying to shield my baby boy from all dangers out there didn’t do any good either in the long run. Chris challenged him, gave him a direction in life when Jim needed it most. Oh, Chris, god rest his soul…”

She sniffles and glances at Spock ruefully, “Sorry for babbling.”

“Your trust honors me,” Spock replies. “It is only natural that as a mother you are deeply unsettled at present. If confiding in me helps you in any way, you can be sure that I shall not disclose anything I have heard.”

He doesn’t say that Mrs. Kirk’s open expression of love for her son reminded him of his own mother, made him feel her absence even more acutely. He came to appreciate this aspect of human emotionalism which may convey so much: affection, caring, support—something beyond the traditional Vulcan restraint, yet probably more important than logic.

Winona nods; a fleeting smile lightens up her eyes, the family resemblance with Jim fascinating.

“My boys,” she whispers. “They’re all I’ve got, the only connection to George other than memories.”

She sits down on the chair beside the bed and buries her face in her hands for a moment, then folds them on her lap, staring down.

“After George died, his parents helped to raise the boys—my parents had been killed in an accident at work ten years prior. Tiberius and Mae took us in and saw to practically everything while it was they who should have been comforted. They were really wonderful.”

“It must have been a very trying time,” Spock says carefully.

“Several years went by in a haze. Just as life gradually began getting back to normal Mae was diagnosed with Iverson’s disease, and eventually Tib had to mortgage the house to cover expenditures for the treatment. She passed away when Jim was nine. The house was sold, Tib moved to a flat provided by Starfleet, but I decided to return with the boys to Iowa, to a family farm which belonged to my older brother and me.”

Winona rubs her eyes with heels of her palms and smirks, “Jeez, I ended up whining how tough my life was. Please forgive me.”

“As I said, listening to you is not a burden,” Spock reassures her. “Talking often helps Humans to process traumatic events, which you need now. Moreover, Jim mentioned that he grew up on a farm, and if you are amenable, I would like to learn more about his formative years.”

“Okay. You’re so nice, Mister Spock, you know that?” she looks up at him, the familiar teasing notes in her tired voice.

Spock’s gaze involuntarily strays to Jim’s face for a second, and he quashes the feeling of embarrassment that threatens to color his cheeks.

“Well, back to the story if you’re interested,” Winona says. “Although my brother and I hadn’t seen each other for ages, Frank was cordial and amiable, or so he seemed. George Junior didn’t like his uncle the instant we stepped over the threshold; Jim, however, got along well with Frank, and I thought that George was just acting out—as a teenager he took the changes especially hard.”

“Why did you not stay in San Francisco?” Spock tilts his head to the side a little. “It would have been less stressful for your children that way. Starfleet would have provided accommodation for you.”

“I thought it was for the better,” Mrs. Kirk shrugs. “There was an opportunity to find a regular part-time job as an engineer at Riverside shipyard instead of running occasional errands in HQ. Things went more or less fine from that point, then the following year a friend offered me a short-term assignment off Earth. I didn’t want to be away from the kids for the whole week, but for a single parent a source of additional income isn’t something to be easily dismissed.”

She pauses, her expression darkening, and Spock surmises that her misgivings had not been in vain.

“Four days into the mission a furious Tib called me, saying that George ran away from home to San Fran, Jim drove my husband’s antique Chevy into the quarry, and Frank beat him up half to death for it,” Winona finishes the sentence through gritted teeth, sinews of her neck straining. “When I got back to Earth a few hours later, Jim’s injuries were already fixed, but seeing the medical files nearly drove me insane: he had been black and blue all over, a concussion, left wrist and two ribs broken. I would’ve killed Frank if he hadn’t been arrested.”

Mrs. Kirk reaches out and squeezes Jim’s arm lightly as if to dispel the memory. Jim’s skin is perfectly smooth, all bruises and scratches healed by McCoy on the very first day.

“It was an atrocious crime,” Spock whispers, appalled. The narration triggered his own recollections of the fight on the bridge one year ago. He looks down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them, and makes a vow to never, never raise them to Jim again, no matter what circumstances are.

“Psychologically Jim recovered soon enough, thanks god, without any lasting effects. After the trial Frank was imprisoned for five years and also evicted because there was no way in hell I’d allow him anywhere around my children in the future. His part was paid to him by Starfleet—several old friends helped to get it done.

We asked Tib to move in with us, so he transferred to Riverside shipyard too. It was a peaceful period; in addition to work at the shipyard we started a small home-based workshop, and no off-planet assignments, of course. Actually, I couldn’t let Jim out of my sight: I wouldn’t permit him to stay for a sleepover at his friends’, go camping with classmates or things like that. I realized that it was too much, but couldn’t help myself.”

“While those limitations must have been vexing for Jim, your reasons are quite understandable,” Spock says. He isn’t certain whether he will be able to let Jim lead a landing party alone ever.

“Jim was becoming more and more restive, and we had terrible rows. So don’t repeat my mistakes,” Winona smiles genuinely for the first time, a shrewd sparkle in her eyes.

“Excuse me if my emotions surfaced,” Spock mutters.

“Oh no, you weren’t that transparent,” Winona shakes her head. “Jim just mentioned a couple of times his First Officer being a ‘worse control freak’ than me.”

Spock has to prevent a blush from spreading yet again.

“At fourteen Jim won a school contest with his physics project,” Mrs. Kirk continues. “The prize was a three-month internship in Iowa State University or in Cochrane Research Center on Tarsus IV.”

“Tarsus IV…” Spock echoes. He saw no reference in Jim’s personal profile, and there couldn’t be any: most of the information regarding the case, including names of the survivors, was strictly classified.

“I fully expected him to pick ISU,” Winona heaves a bitter sigh. “But he revolted, saying I would control his every step and make George, who was studying there, watch over him. Well, maybe he was right. I refused to give permission for his going to Tarsus, and Jim said he would give up on studies altogether. He would’ve kept his promise, you know him—he’s pretty obstinate.”

Spock can indeed relate: once that resolve saved the Earth and once it could have caused a war with Klingons had Jim not yielded to reasonable arguments.

“I was afraid he’d get completely out of hand and signed the damned form. If only I’d been less overbearing, none of it would’ve happened.”

“You cannot be certain of that,” Spock disagrees. “There are too many variables to predict what would have transpired if your attitude had been different. Jim could have still preferred a more applied approach of the research center over theoretical studies at the university.” 

Mrs. Kirk gives Jim a pensive look.

“Although he told me as much, I wonder to this day—what if. He was never the same afterwards.

It’s no use to describe how crazy it was to sit and wait when the bad news came. In two months, one week and five days Jim was finally returned to us, physically unharmed, but gaunt and awfully quiet. Didn’t shed a single tear and wouldn’t talk unless he was spoken to; even then his answers were monosyllabic.

We would find food stacked in his room, and he would always carry around snacks in his pockets. There were other issues; neither therapists nor George or I could get through to him. Little by little Tib managed, with chess. If Jim ever discussed his Tarsus experience with anyone, it was Tib.”

This should be the origin of Jim’s adamant wish to save everyone, against all odds, defying the most impossible ones. Unlike the captain, Spock thought that after the Fall of Vulcan he learned acceptance—what was, was. It took facing something he absolutely could not accept to get a view from Jim’s perspective.

“Are you okay?” Mrs. Kirk asks anxiously, rising briskly to her feet. “You turned pallid. Please, take a seat.”

“No, I am quite alright,” Spock tries to summon every bit of composure he can. “It was… overwhelming to hear that Jim had to endure so much.”

“You really care for him,” Winona says, watching him intently. There is warmth in her eyes, but Spock feels uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

“What happened after?” he prompts.

An expression of sorrow passes Mrs. Kirk’s face before she answers.

“Jim was recovering steadily until Tib died the next year. It made Jim snap: the first day he cried and cried, couldn’t stop, then retreated into his shell again. His delinquent behavior started sometime later. As a result he got kicked out from a good school and graduated from a public one, but it didn’t seem to bother him. If I brought up potential careers, he’d say he liked running our workshop and living in the present. The Academy changed that, it was wonderful to see him different—eyes bright, full of plans for the future, so... space is good for him, despite the risks it entails.”

Winona gazes at Jim fondly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Why did you decide to resume your own service in space?” Spock asks.

“For old times’ sake, I guess. Jim was doing fine in the Academy, George also had his own life off planet, and suddenly there was only me in an empty house. It was kind of a bittersweet feeling and a new start.”

For some reason Spock contemplates whether Sarek experiences the weight of solitude in a similar fashion when he is not engaged in his daily tasks. Ultimately Father will have to bond since _Kolinahr_ is the only other option, and in the face of extinction it would be unwise. However, Spock does not want to imagine another taking Mother’s place while it has not yet become a reality.

Mrs. Kirk appears to be lost in thought as well; both continue to keep vigil in silence until the sound of the opening door makes them turn.

“Comman— Mrs. Kirk,” Doctor McCoy nods, entering the ward. “Spock.”

“Doctor,” Spock responds to the greeting.

“Hello, Doctor McCoy. It’s great to meet you in the flesh at last, although I wish the circumstances were different,” Winona says, reaching out for a handshake. “Sorry for waking you up with my call when you were off-shift.”

“It is absolutely okay, ma’am,” McCoy squeezes her hand gently. “You can call me anytime if you have questions.”

The doctor begins a routine examination, scanning Jim, surveying the data on monitors and taking notes in his PADD.

“How is he?” Winona addresses McCoy after he has finished. Spock is also anticipating his reply with undivided attention.

“We have positive dynamics here,” the doctor smiles. “Radiation on molecular and cellular levels is back to natural limits, regeneration of all systems ongoing, and respiration is perfectly fine. I’ll keep him on ventilation for tonight just to be on the safe side, but tomorrow we’ll try to let him breathe on his own and see how it goes.”

“Oh my god, I’m so happy to hear that,” Mrs. Kirk is dabbing at her eyes with a sleeve. The doctor rummages in the pocket of his overcoat and proffers her a sterile tissue.

“Thank you,” she sobs, unsealing it.

Spock registers a surge of his own emotions—hope, relief, joy—which he has to keep in check together with his elevated heart rate.

McCoy glances back at Jim and murmurs, “He’s grown a little bit of stubble, gotta tell a nurse to take care of it.”

“May I?” Winona touches the doctor’s arm slightly.

He raises his eyebrows, but replies in a moment, “Sure, a nurse will bring you a beard suppressant.”

Spock inwardly agrees with the doctor’s rationale despite that it does not comply with rules. A small concession is quite justified if it provides the captain’s mother with comfort of looking after her child. He decides to give Mrs. Kirk some time alone with her son.

“If you will excuse me I would like to take my leave of you now. I must return to the ship,” he says.

There is a subtle change in McCoy’s demeanor whose gaze becomes steely as he shifts it to Spock.

“Before you do, may I have a word with you?” the doctor asks in a tone devoid of inflection.

Spock merely inclines his head to that.

“It’s a pity you have to go already. I’m very glad to have met you,” Mrs. Kirk says softly. “See you, Mister Spock.”

McCoy follows Spock out of the ward and leads him through the corridor into an empty conference room. After the doors slide shut, the doctor turns abruptly, his face red with fury.

“Listen here, you pointy-eared bastard! M’Benga gave me a lead on telepathic interactions, so I studied all records I could lay my hands on. Vulcans _do_ affect those who they share connections with, though the extent of influence may vary. It is negligible for bonds with parents, siblings or close friends, but particularly strong with spouses. On many occasions patients with severe brain traumas recovered quite quickly with assistance from their bondmates. There are only two Vulcans in vicinity, and since there was no change in Jim’s vitals when the old guy was here again this morning, everythin’ pretty much points to you. I understand that you mean well, but marryin’ Jim without his consent! It’s a grave telepathic assault! Are you really that crazy?”

“Doctor, please allow me to explain,” Spock holds up a hand.

“I’m all ears,” McCoy drawls scathingly.

“Jim and I indeed share a link, however, it formed naturally by itself approximately one year ago,” Spock begins in a clear and slow manner. “A spontaneous formation of a link is a fairly rare phenomenon among my people, and it indicates that two minds are exceptionally attuned with each other. At present the link is not a marital bond, and it can be kept as it is, uniting two people as close as family but not genetically related.”

“There’s something you’re not tellin’ me. This link of yours can become a marital bond, right? Or why the hell would it have such a strong effect?”

“I would never force the captain into that,” Spock says earnestly. “If you wish to file an official report, any healer can carry out a mind meld with me and prove it is the truth.”

“Does Jim even know?” the doctor demands.

When Spock fails to answer, the color drains from McCoy’s face, and he exhales loudly, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I shall inform him as soon as he regains consciousness. I promise.”

“You’d better do that or you’ll have to deal with me,” the doctor hisses, staring at Spock with piercing eyes and then storms out of the room.

5.2 minutes later Spock exits Starfleet Medical. Night has already fallen; with all fires having been extinguished, the damage the city sustained is not as obvious in the darkness as in daylight. Spock hails the Enterprise to beam him up. There is a matter that cannot be postponed any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special guest star: Michelle Pfeiffer as Winona Kirk


	4. Chapter 4

“Computer, locate Lieutenant Uhura.”

“Lieutenant Uhura is in her quarters.”

It is 2215 hours, and Spock knows that Nyota is still unlikely to be asleep. He presses the button of an intercom.

“Spock to Lieutenant Uhura. Nyota?”

“Spock! Where are you?” is an immediate reply.

“In transporter room 6. May I talk to you now in person?” he asks awkwardly.

“Sure, come on over!” Nyota’s voice is cheerful; Spock loathes the impending necessity to upset her.

He reaches Nyota’s quarters and signals for entry. The doors open, and there she is, standing in the middle of the living area in a plain home dress—so close, and yet already so distant. Seeing Spock walk in, Nyota grins at first, but her smile fades quickly, replaced by a concerned expression.

“Is everything okay?”

“Nyota, I…” Spock falters. It is extremely difficult to find the right words. Vulcans are accustomed to speak directly, however, at this particular moment, with her, it seems too cruel. He lets out a sigh. “Perhaps, Humans approach it in a more delicate way…”

“I suspected something has been going on with you lately,” Nyota frowns, then gazes at him with tenderness. “What is it, Spock?”

It has to be said, and there is little difference whether the blow is softened or not because the result will be the same: her feelings will be hurt. Spock wishes he could spare her heart from breaking, make it easier, but that cannot be. Carrying on would be much worse.

“I came to end our romantic involvement.”

Nyota becomes very still, her eyes wide and lips slightly parted.

“What? Why? What happened?” she stammers, getting over the stupor and studying Spock’s face. In a few seconds the realization hits her. “Oh, _oh_.”

Spock is grateful that he does not have to explain something he himself hasn’t quite adjusted to. Nyota is astute as always, it is one of her many admirable qualities.

“You understand,” he attempts speaking again. “You are…”

Somehow Federation Standard is inept to convey his thoughts, and Spock switches to his primary language, “ _Nam-tor du maut yauluhk wushu na’nash-veh, hi eit'jae pabukh’es t’du_. _Vesht paresh-tor ahklavaya_ …”

The look on Nyota’s face is pained and disbelieving at the same time. Spock forces himself to breathe in and out to be able to continue.

“I cannot dishonor you by maintaining our relationship while wishing for another. I am sorry, Nyota.”

Nyota’s shoulders droop; she briefly covers her face with a hand. When she withdraws the hand, there is a semblance of tranquility in her demeanor and resignation in her eyes.

“I’m gonna hug you, okay?” she says shakily.

Spock nods, and Nyota comes up and holds him tight. Spock circles his arms around her in response.

“Oh, Spock. I do love you. I will always love you as a friend,” Nyota’s voice is muffled against Spock’s chest. “Please know that you can always, _always_ count on me. If you ever need anything, I’ll be there for you.”

 _“Naat na’du,”_ Spock whispers.

 _“Veling, tal-kam,”_ Nyota lets go of him with a sad smile.

There is nothing more to say, so Spock leaves for his quarters.

 

Over the next four days Spock visits the captain in the interim between his work on the ship and progress report meetings with Starfleet Command. However, he doesn’t stay overnight, not wishing to impose his presence on Mrs. Kirk who often lingers until late hours. They keep conversing—Spock relates stories about missions the Enterprise has been on while Mrs. Kirk shares some anecdotes from Jim’s childhood. It is curious to note that Jim’s core qualities were evident even then and to find similarities with Spock’s own experiences despite the vast differences in their upbringing. 

It appears as though Mrs. Kirk also took upon herself to ensure that Spock eats regularly because every day she inquires whether he has had a meal, and if not, accompanies him to the canteen at a corresponding time.

As Doctor McCoy had planned, Jim was disconnected from mechanical ventilation, and his breathing pattern has been steady ever since. His vitals are constantly showing improvement; it fills everyone with more hope and anticipation.

Occasionally Spock’s visits overlap with those of his older self. Observing the way the Elder looks at Jim, Spock is often tempted to ask him of Jim’s counterpart, but suppresses the urge. It is too personal. Therefore, topics of their discussions mostly address the state of affairs on New Vulcan if they don’t spend their time in silence which does not burden either of them.

That is why, a week after Jim’s revival, Spock expects to see medical staff, Mrs. Kirk or the Ambassador when instead a tall blond man comes in. He is approximately thirty Terran years old, of a somewhat denser build than Jim. His blue eyes are of an icy shade, having none of that cerulean depth Jim’s eyes possess. The man is dressed in civilian clothes—Jim said once that his older brother was a research biologist who lived on one of Earth colonies.

“Hello, I’m George Kirk,” Jim’s brother introduces himself, outstretching his hand, but then dropping it, having apparently remembered that Vulcans generally avoid physical contact.

“Greetings, Mr. Kirk. I am Spock,” Spock raises his hand in the  _ta’al_.

“I guessed as much: Jim always talks about you,” George chuckles. He walks closer to the biobed and squeezes Jim’s hand.

“Man, I’m sorry for the delay,” he whispers, gazing at his younger brother, then looks up at Spock, “Mom said he’s on the mend, right?”

“Changes in the captain’s condition have been positive, yes,” Spock replies. “Shall Mrs. Kirk visit later today?”

George nods, “In the evening, most likely. Recent days took their toll on her, she’s resting now.”

“I hope emotional stress did not have a detrimental effect on her health,” Spock says, concerned for the captain’s mother.

“No, nothing serious, she just needs a good sleep,” George assures him. “Jeez, I really wish I had come earlier, but the news found me caught up in transferring from Deneva to Colony II—a grand moving and all, besides my wife Aurelan is about to have our first baby, so things have been pretty crazy for the past few weeks.”

“I see,” Spock simply acknowledges, having no further considerations.

“And I also wish to sincerely thank you for taking care of my little bro,” George smiles sheepishly.

Another extension of gratitude from the Kirk family makes Spock feel embarrassed again.

“It was a combined effort,” he mutters.

“Not only that,” George elaborates. “For supporting him, for having his back throughout his first year of captaincy. He’s brilliant alright, but he’s a yesterday’s cadet after all. Despite his cockiness, it’s been tougher on him than he lets on, and you lent him your experience when he had none.”

If Spock were fully Human, his cheeks would be definitely burning by now. Since he is merely half-Human, he just arches his eyebrow, “It was logical to perform my duties accordingly. One does not thank logic.”

“Well, maybe Vulcans don’t, but we Humans see it a bit differently,” George insists. As soon as the words leave his mouth, a mildly horrified look passes over the older Kirk’s face. “My god, I’m so sorry, it was completely insensitive of me!”

“There is no offense where none is taken,” Spock disregards his faux pas, being inwardly amused nonetheless.  “Moreover, the captain has been demonstrating excellent commanding skills.”   

“At least he managed not to blow up the ship so far,” George smirks, but then his expression suddenly changes: he furrows his brow, lowering his gaze to the biobed.

“Hey, Jim squeezed my hand back!” he exclaims. “He hasn’t shown any signs of waking up before, has he? Should we call a doctor or something?”

Spock looks down: Jim’s fingers are indeed curled around his brother’s. Heart racing, Spock goes to the intercom.

“Spock to Doctor M’Benga, please come to the captain’s ward,” he says in a carefully dispassionate tone.

“Yes, Commander, I’m on my way,” the doctor replies at once.

In 1.3 minutes M’Benga arrives, and they explain him why he was summoned. After taking full scans, the doctor nods with satisfaction, his gray-blue eyes sparkling triumphantly.

“According to the results, there’s really a spectacular progress,” he grins. “Coming round should take time, though. The process is gradual as the patient regains brain function, and his awareness of himself and his surroundings increase. First manifestations may be in random movements like this one, eyelids fluttering, breathing becoming more characteristic of a wakeful state and finally the consciousness returning little by little.”

“I can’t even… Mom will be thrilled!” George gasps, looking from the doctor to Spock and back to M’Benga with a wide smile. “How long will it take, Doctor?”

“It’s case-by-case,” M’Benga shakes his head. “Let’s hope it will be soon. Meanwhile, I should inform Doctor McCoy. If you will excuse me, gentlemen.”

The doctor leaves. George is still smiling, awed and alight with happiness, his eyes crinkling the same way Jim’s do when the captain feels joy.

“I guess I’ll go out to the corridor to call Mom, she ought to know,” he says and exits the ward too.

Alone with Jim, Spock seizes the opportunity to hold his hand.

 

Throughout the following week Winona and George are almost always present when Spock visits the captain. Doctor McCoy is noticeably in an exhilarated mood, checking in on Jim even off-shift. Spock himself has to dedicate all power of his Vulcan disciplines to stay focused during the work on the Enterprise. He spends the rest of the time by Jim’s side, hoping that their link will facilitate Jim’s recovery. There is an easy rapport between him and the Kirks, who mention once that they see Spock as a part of the family; it is simultaneously astonishing and flattering. They also eagerly welcome Spock’s older counterpart, and any sense of rivalry which Spock may have harbored towards the Ambassador seems foolish and egoistic now.

Jim is showing more signs of improvement: occasionally he stirs or pulls on the feeding tubes, so it is necessary to watch over him while he is receiving nourishment. He does not stay unsupervised either way.  

“You know, last time Jim landed in a hospital was around sixteen years ago,” George says one evening. “Although he’s been a trouble magnet ever since that notorious episode with the convertible, somehow he has an ability to get away unscathed from his stunts.”

“Doctor McCoy would beg to differ,” Spock replies. “Over the past year the captain was in sickbay five times.”

“But it wasn’t anything major, right? Back then, however, I thought he wouldn’t forgive me for running off and leaving him with the asshole uncle. When we found him, he looked so horrible I was scared shitless… I have no idea why I’m telling you all this,” George rubs his forehead. “The point is, he did forgive me, that very day, and everything went back to normal as it had been—no, better because our grandpa was living with us again.”

“It was fortunate that reconciliation was achieved,” _and that you returned home_ , Spock thinks, cutting off wistful reminiscences of his own long lost half-brother.

“Yeah.”

 

Three days later, at 0730 hours Spock is preparing for a routine progress report meeting when the link flares up in his mind. Jim’s presence is becoming more pronounced, palpable, and its pull is growing stronger. There is still time to see the captain briefly prior to the meeting; therefore, Spock uploads the last portion of data to a Starfleet server from his computer terminal and heads to the transporter room.

In 7.3 minutes he walks into the ward. Doctor McCoy is engrossed in comparing readings from the biobed monitors with information on his PADD, murmuring overall analysis under his breath. The stylus stops moving in his fingers as the doctor looks up.

“Why am I not surprised?” McCoy arches a sardonic eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you had something like a telepathic connection with Jim. Oh wait, you do!”

“ _Doctor_ ,” Spock allows impatience to seep through.

“Okay,” McCoy sighs. “In all appearances he’s coming around. Nice of you to drop by. Perfect timing.”

As if on cue, the captain starts breathing more deeply and rapidly. Standing by the door, Spock witnesses the exact moment Jim’s long eyelashes quiver and his eyes fly open, their slightly unfocused cerulean gaze taking in the room around before fixing on Doctor McCoy. The doctor visibly exercises control over his emotions and switches on his hand scanner.

“Aw, don’t be so melodramatic. You were barely dead,” he drawls, hiding his agitation behind humor, and runs the scanner over the side of Jim’s face, elaborating in a more serious tone, “It was the transfusion that really took its toll. You were out cold for two weeks.”

“Transfusion?” Jim asks, his voice hoarse with disuse, barely audible.

It is such an ecstatic joy to hear this voice again, to see life in these eyes. Spock has no desire to invoke _shaula_ , however, it is necessary to govern the intensity of what he feels.

“Your cells were heavily irradiated. We had no choice,” McCoy continues the explanation.

“Khan,” Jim makes a logical inference.

Spock is catching every subtle detail of his face: a crease between the eyebrows, the intent expression of the eyes, movements of the lips—and realizes how much he missed it all.

“Once we caught him, I synthesized a serum from his,” the doctor waves a hand, “superblood. Tell me, are you feeling homicidal? Power mad? Despotic?”

“No more than usual. How’d you catch him?” Jim frowns.

“I didn’t,” McCoy retreats with a wry smile, so Spock could approach.

He makes the five steps that separate him from the biobed. Nothing exists except Jim as their eyes lock. Jim’s lips curl up, and the link sings, enveloping Spock in warmth. 

“You saved my life,” Jim says softly.

“Uhura and I had something to do with it, too, you know,” McCoy chimes in, and Jim just quirks an eyebrow at him, still frail and weary.

I hardly deserve any credit, Jim—for it was rage in the deepest end of desperation. I would have killed for you.

“You saved my life, Captain,” Spock replies instead. “And the lives...”

But Jim will have none of it.

“Spock, just... Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Jim,” Spock gladly surrenders. Holding Jim’s gaze and knowing that he is convalescing is everything that necessary.

“You take good care of our lady?” Jim asks after a pause.

“The repairs are ongoing, Captain,” Spock reverts to a professional mode. “I will present the details at…”

“No shop talk! He’s barely awakened, for Christ’s sake!” the doctor interrupts.

“Bones, I need a status report!” Jim protests.

“You need to take it easy,” McCoy admonishes, then throws a baleful look at Spock, “and _you_ are due to the meeting with Command.”

“The doctor is correct. I shall come immediately after, Jim,” Spock allows the corners of his mouth tug upward a little, and Jim’s smile in response is more than worth it.

“Alright, I’ll be waiting,” the captain says, closing his eyes in exhaustion.

On his way to HQ, Spock sends a notification to Jim’s family and the Ambassador.

 

When Spock returns to the ward, Jim’s mother and brother are already there.

“We haven’t seen him awake yet,” Winona whispers. “According to Doctor McCoy, at first it’ll be difficult for him to stay conscious for long periods and he’ll be drifting in and out for a while.”

“But we just couldn’t wait,” George adds also in a whisper, “and came right after receiving your message. Thanks, by the way.”

“The Ambassador was here too,” Mrs. Kirk smiles. “He left about fifteen minutes ago, saying that he’d be back when Jim has rested enough.”

Before Spock has a chance to answer, Doctor McCoy comes in and addresses them, “Y’all want to talk to him, of course. Just in case: don’t tell him yet what happened to the city, no PADDs and as little work-related discussions as possible, okay? Let him recover in blessed ignorance for the time being.”

Everyone nods their agreement; the doctor proceeds with checking the readings and then he is summoned to another patient.

15.2 minutes pass, the three of them exchanging sporadic remarks in low tones. Jim stirs, and the first person he sees when he opens his eyes is his mother. Winona beams at him with tears trickling down her face. George appears to be on the verge of weeping too. Spock has to reinforce his shields against the strength of emotions emanating from the Humans to preserve his own under control.

“Hey Mom,” Jim says in a raspy voice, smiling.

“Hi, baby,” she replies gently.

“Mom, I’m 26 and I’m a starship captain,” Jim gives an exasperated laugh.

“Whatever,” Winona extends her hand to stroke Jim’s cheek. George comes to stand next to her, grinning.

“Hey T.” 

As Jim’s gaze shifts from his mother to his brother, he breaks into another dazzling smile.

“Hey Sam,” Jim reaches out with his fist, and George bumps their knuckles together. Noticing Spock’s bewildered expression, the captain explains, “It’s an old joke, calling each other by our middle names.”

“It started when our grandpa, Tiberius Samuel, taught us about one of time paradoxes,” George supplies.

“I’m my own grandfather,” the brothers say simultaneously and giggle as does Mrs. Kirk.

“We’ll tell you the whole story later should you have a wish to listen,” she says.

“Oh, by the way, Mom, Sam, this is…”

“Spock,” Winona and George say, mirth in their eyes.

“Well, I see you got acquainted while I had my beauty sleep,” Jim observes.

“Indeed, we have,” Spock acknowledges with amusement.

“Yes, your First Officer and friend is wonderful,” Winona casts a fond glance at Spock.

“I know that,” Jim chuckles.

Spock cannot fathom why he feels flustered every time the Kirks say something nice about him. Compliments are compliments—pleasantries customary among Humans. Vulcans seldom express appreciation, mostly for exemplary work, and never in such an emphatic fashion. Anyway, it is but another peculiar Human trait which has affected Spock scarcely if not at all. But somehow it is different with the Kirks.

Apparently, Spock’s predicament does not escape the captain’s attention because Jim drops the playful tone and promptly changes the subject.

“So, Sam, how’s Aurie been doing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nam-tor du maut yauluhk wushu na’nash-veh, hi eit'jae pabukh’es t’du. Vesht paresh-tor ahklavaya… - You are a very important individual to me, but I beg forgiveness of you. A revelation occurred…  
> Naat na’du. - Thank you. (Lit. Respect to you – an informal expression, used to overtly express respect when a genuine feeling of appreciation is involved /korsaya.org/)  
> Veling, tal-kam. - Of course, dear. (Veling is an appropriate response to gratitude, lit. Logically, it was the correct thing for me to do /korsaya.org/)
> 
> shaula – self-control; control of one’s emotions, desires or actions by one’s own will, reasoning 
> 
> Translations into Vulcan were made with the help of information from Vulcan Language Dictionary, Vulcan Language Institute and korsaya.org. A huge respect and gratitude to the founders and developers of these wonderful resources!
> 
> ***  
> Special guest stars: Chris Evans as George Samuel and Michael Ealy as Doctor M'Benga


	5. Chapter 5

Henceforward, Jim spends the majority of his time with his family. He is delighted to see the Ambassador who comes to him every day as well. After a series of tests Doctor McCoy has confirmed that Jim’s life is out of danger, and everyone is very much relieved by the knowledge. Serenity has returned to the Ambassador’s demeanor, he doesn’t look as drawn anymore. Pondering over his situation, Spock cannot begrudge his older counterpart enjoying Jim’s company. Spock had a glimpse of a universe without Jim whereas for the Ambassador it used to be a reality for decades. The idea is terrifying.

His own attraction to Jim by this point is insuperable: Jim’s presence, his gaze, the sound of his voice, laughter, and occasional touches they share are akin to basking in the rays of Ko’Vel on a fine morning on T’Khasi. Jim is the one and only as Vulcan’s sun—Sol and other stars bearing no comparison to it.

Perhaps it is wishful imagination, but Jim’s face always appears to light up when Spock visits. Complying with Doctor McCoy’s request, Spock gives a general overview of the current activities without going into detail despite the captain’s discontentment. Nevertheless, Jim agrees to follow the doctor’s recommendations since McCoy promised to discharge him sooner if cooperation was provided.

In eight days subsequent to Jim’s awakening Mrs. Kirk is notified that the Potemkin is to resume its mission. Although she wants to stay behind, Jim persuades her to return to her duties, so his mother leaves reluctantly, saying that she will call as frequently as possible. Two more days elapse, and George receives a transmission that his wife’s gestation period has completed—due to this he too must depart. Jim is overjoyed about becoming an uncle.

The Ambassador and Spock remain at his side. Spock brings a portable chess set, and they play long sessions, the captain’s approach unconventional and perplexing as ever. Sometimes Spock notes with curiosity the arrangement of pieces after Jim’s matches with the Ambassador: the Elder is obviously more knowledgeable about Jim’s tactics.

When Jim gets tired, they just converse or Spock reads for him; Jim often falls asleep halfway through the chapter, and Spock finds peaceful contentment in studying his features.

Gradually Jim regains his strength, and, having obtained permission from Doctor McCoy, tries to get up from the bed and move around the ward with Spock’s assistance. Once the crew is allowed to visit again, Nyota is among the first people to come. Spock hasn’t seen her much after they split; her bearing is placid and genuinely warm towards them both—she clearly doesn’t hold bitter feelings against the captain.

Jim, oblivious to what has transpired, merrily chats with her and makes an unsuccessful attempt to elicit some information. To his chagrin, Nyota prevaricates, of course.

“Aw, come on, Ny, as Communications Officer you ought to be more talkative!” the captain pouts. “Is it a plot or something?”

“Yeah, we all conspired to make you whine,” Nyota counters with good-natured sarcasm.

“Mutineers,” Jim grumbles. “A Kirk bored out of his wits is dangerous, you know.”

“I’m sure two Spocks can handle that,” Nyota replies, unperturbed.

“By the way, you must be mad at me for keeping your boyfriend all to myself,” Jim tells her apologetically. “Guys, you don’t have to sit here cooped up—have fun, go on a date!”

“Well, that’s unlikely,” Nyota says, her tone gentle and a little sad.

“We are no longer romantically involved,” Spock explains.

The captain’s eyes widen in astonishment as he shifts his gaze from Nyota to Spock and back.

“I’m sorry…” he mutters, furrowing his brow. “You were… a beautiful couple.”

“It didn’t work out, sometimes it happens,” Nyota pats him on the knee. He catches her hand and gives it a squeeze; they smile at each other. At this instant Nyota’s communicator beeps, so she checks it. “Sorry, Jim, Command has just demanded additional data for the meeting. Gotta go dig the ship’s logs.”

“Sure,” he nods.

She glances at him and at Spock, then rises to her feet and walks to the door.

“Hey, Ny?” Jim calls after her, and she turns her head. “Now that you are free from obligations, and I won’t incur Spock’s wrath, maybe I could cajole you into bringing me a PADD?”

He flashes a dazzling grin in her direction, batting his eyelashes ostentatiously.

“Not a chance, Captain, I’m immune to your baby blues, you should be aware already,” she smirks before leaving.

“At least I tried,” Jim shrugs, looking at Spock. “How soon does the meeting begin?”

“I can linger for 10.3 minutes more,” Spock goes to the chair vacated by Nyota and sits down.

“I know you don’t do heart to heart talks,” Jim says with an earnest expression, “but I’m always here to listen.”

“Thank you, Jim, I appreciate it,” Spock replies quietly.

“Um, is it really okay that I’m imposing myself on you like this? You’re stuck with me, helping around; it must take all your personal time.”

“If I can stay with you, I do not wish to be anywhere else.”

The captain gazes at Spock as if he is the most wondrous view in the universe. This childlike ingenuousness has rendered Spock’s defenses precarious since the very beginning, even when they didn’t know each other well. Over the past year this effect intensified to the extent that Spock doesn’t try to contain it anymore. In fact, he is captivated quite willingly, submerging in the deep pools of azure. His time sense is inadequate in such conditions.

Jim clears his throat and blinks, breaking the spell. With an effort, Spock concentrates on the material world around them.

“So, Bones is being extra nasty lately, don’t you agree?” Jim says in a light tone. “He confiscates everything—balloons, flowers, food and other stuff from our beloved crew.”

“It is imperative to exclude potential allergens,” Spock offers a logical rationale.

“Bah, it’s just a pretense. And yet, guess what Chekov smuggled for me?” Jim’s voice becomes a conspiratorial whisper, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He rummages under the pillow, produces a box with small chocolates and opens it. “Want some?”

“No, thank you,” Spock raises his eyebrow. Did Jim skip his xenobiology classes or, on the contrary, remembers their contents perfectly well?

“Your loss, my gain,” Jim grins, unwraps one little cube, puts it in his mouth and starts chewing slowly. His eyes fall shut as he groans, “Oh. My. God. This Russian dark chocolate is _delicious_.”

Spock watches him utterly mesmerized again.

“You have a smear on your face,” without giving it much thought, he reaches out and wipes the smudge from Jim’s lower lip. Then, realizing what has been done, he jerks his hand away in shock.

Jim is equally astounded.

“Oh?” he stares, a blush spreading over his cheeks. “Thanks.”

“I should go, Captain,” Spock gets up hurriedly. “Please excuse me.”

Heading out, he hears a dazed ‘okay’ behind.

Alone in the corridor, Spock leans back on the wall, exhaling heavily. His gaze falls down to his hands, and he notices the unfortunate chocolate stain. Common sense has lost an unequal battle. Spock brings his thumb to his mouth and licks the sweet substance off.

 

The meeting has almost ended when Spock perceives through the link that Jim is distressed. Having no other option, Spock tells Admiral Komack that there is an emergency which requires his presence elsewhere. The admiral appears to be scandalized, but Spock pays no heed—he delegates his responsibilities to Mister Scott and proceeds to the exit, followed by curious and concerned glances from other department heads of the Enterprise.

To save the time, he beams from HQ to Starfleet Medical and all but runs to the ICU. In the captain’s ward, Jim and Doctor McCoy are in the middle of a heated argument, so they do not see Spock at first.

“You stole M’Benga’s PADD!” McCoy’s shrill voice is an octave higher than usual.

“Khan destroyed a part of San Francisco, and nobody said a word! Bones, you did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Jim shouts at him, embittered. He is sitting on the bed, slightly leaning forward, the blanket clutched in his fists.

“Yes, because I knew how you’d react,” the doctor grimaces, lowering his tone to a normal level. “Worrying is the last thing you need right now.”

“Worrying?!” Jim exclaims in disbelief. “It was all my fault!”

“Here we go,” McCoy rolls his eyes. “How can it be your fault when you did everything by the book?”

“Exactly! I shouldn’t have! I should have guessed that something like this could happen, that bringing him back to Earth was ultimately a dumb idea.”

“Hindsight is always 20/20, kid. For the love of god, who could’ve guessed that?”

Jim hangs his head down, pale and silent. A maelstrom of _numbness, confusion,_ _guilt, anger, denial, grief_ is smashing against Spock’s shields and seeping through the link. Is it possible to alleviate his pain? How do you comfort the dearest one if you are partly to blame for the suffering inflicted on him?

“Oh crap!” the doctor throws up his hands in frustration and turns to Spock. “Spock, maybe he’ll listen to you since my persuasion skills suck at the moment.”

“Captain,” Spock steps closer, “the outcome was a direct consequence of my decisions, for I was in command when Khan set a course for Earth. I should have found a solution to prevent him from doing so. Hence it was my fault, I failed you.”

Jim’s eyes snap up to Spock’s, “No, no, Spock, what are you talking about? I left you a bad set of cards—”

“Knock it off, you two! It wasn’t you who woke Khan up and started this mess!” McCoy snarls and glowers at Spock. “Dammit man, you’re no help at all.”

Jim lowers his gaze again, whispering, “So many people on my conscience. Now they’re dead, and I’m alive.”

That makes it.

“Alright, you corn-fed idiot!” McCoy spits. “Go ahead, wallow in self-recrimination! But hear this! Spock fuckin’ lost it when you died. He would’ve shred Khan to pieces if Uhura hadn’t interfered. When I administered the serum and saw your heart beatin’ again, it was a darn miracle. So don’t you dare pull your survivor guilt shit on us!”

The doctor is trembling, his breath shallow and labored. With a rapid movement he dashes away the welled up tears and curses.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Bones,” Jim stutters, his expression stricken. “I’m so sorry, Spock. I’m really, really sorry.”

McCoy puts his hand on Jim’s shoulder, and Jim clings to him. The sight of them embracing is unbearable. Spock is torn between remorse, shame and resentment towards McCoy whom Jim trusts instinctively. Spock, on the other hand, failed his trust and is clearly out of place here. He goes away. 

 

As soon as Spock rematerializes in the transporter room of the Enterprise, his communicator starts humming. It is the Engineering: due to a system error, warp core controls malfunctioned, and the warp drive was launched in a test mode. The maintenance was still continuing, so it should not have occurred. This can result in an overload of warp coils and a subsequent necessity to eject the core.

Spock makes haste to the Engineering at once. By the time Mister Scott arrives, he is in the process of bypassing the main controls in order to perform a manual shutdown via the switching console. Every minute counts, and together they eventually succeed.

Members of the Engineering staff are wearing exultant smiles, wiping sweat from their foreheads. Mister Scott slumps in his chair and exhales.

“If you hadna been here, sir, it would’ve been a disaster,” he says. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” Spock replies. “I had another issue in mind; it was a mere coincidence.”

“A real lucky one,” Scott scratches his nape.

The matter resolved, Spock retires to his quarters. Even though the incident itself was regrettable, he was grateful for the distraction. Now he is alone with the turmoil of thoughts and emotions. Meditation can certainly help to mitigate it to some degree, but Spock cannot bring himself to light the candles and sit in the _loshirak_ position. He has been wondering for weeks whether he is adequate as a commanding officer. Was it a miscalculation on his part that led to such a tremendous amount of casualties? Where was his mistake?

Spock is pacing around the cabin in a very un-Vulcan manner. He let Jim down. Jim is despondent because of Spock’s failure and takes responsibility for the deeds that were not his, considering himself less of a captain.

Furthermore, Spock harbors antipathy towards Doctor McCoy who was acting to Jim’s benefit. The feeling is selfish, ugly and uncalled for. What is going on? Spock does not recognize himself: being possessive, relinquishing control without any regret—actually enjoying it, prioritizing personal affairs over professional duties… Is this called love? If so, Spock wishes he never experienced it.

“Contemplation is counterproductive,” Spock grits through his teeth, peeling off the uniform and striding to the bathroom.

Hot torrents of water shower wash off the tiredness that accumulated during the day. With sheer willpower Spock clears his mind. He emerges from the bathroom barefoot, in a black meditation robe, miniscule droplets sliding along his skin, and crosses the room to ignite incense in the _asenoi_. Rich ornaments of the ancient fire pot glow in the semi-darkness, reminding him of the mediation hall at home in ShiKahr. The family heirloom was passed on from the Pre-reform times; it is one of the few mementos Spock has.

Cautiously reaching out through the link, he gets an impression that Jim is still upset, but the intensity of it is now tempered. Perhaps Jim will cope better if Spock does not bother him—there is no need to make him dwell on an unsatisfactory proficiency level of his exec. Should the captain request a replacement, _kaiidth_ , there will be no objections on Spock’s part.

Today shall be a rare occasion when Spock brews tea in the traditional way: the fragrant herbs have to be used sparingly as only half a jar is left.

The rest of the evening is spent in attempts to achieve _tvi-sochya_. 

 

Four hours of fitful sleep did little to improve Spock’s unsettled state. He welcomes a considerable scope of work on reinforcement of the ship’s operational system stability, plunging into a familiar rhythm, solely focused on writing and amending the codes.

_Nam-tor du beyik_

_Ein-wilat be’nash-veh, ri kup-gla-tor_

At 2045 his team and he finish checking strings of the last array. After a brief respite Spock heads to Lab 3 to observe the progress in growing of artificial dilithium crystals. While their quality is inferior to that of natural ones, if the project is successful, its results may prove beneficial in cases of critical shortage of supplies. Spock has been supervising the experiment over the past 6.9 months. 

_Beta’uh, sanu_

_Ri dungau dash-tor_

By 0030 there is nothing more to be done in the Lab until the crystals reach the next stage of growth. Back in his quarters, Spock sets for a light meditation, but upon its completion the pent up agitated energy stays on. The whole day he has been carefully listening to the link—aside from the sadness that was coming through, it was calm.

_Ki’dahshal etek_

_Vesht zahal-tor na’irak-yutlar_

Jim would dispose of excessive energy in the gym when he was ‘too hyped up’. Spock decides to employ the captain’s method. No one is there save himself at this hour, which is fortunate—solitude is comfortable. He begins with a basic workout and treadmill. Once his muscles are sufficiently warmed up, stretching exercises are most effective: tension in his shoulders, neck and spine dissipate. It has been a long while since the last practice of _Suus Mahna_.

Spock assumes an appropriate stance opposite to the punching bag, closes his eyes for a moment and lets the body remember. Years of training fuse into movements, swift and fluid as they should be, but not quite precise. Delivering blow after blow, kick after kick, using all combinations that come to mind, he cannot cast aside stray thoughts. Were it a real sparring, the Master would already defeat him and admonish for the lack of concentration.

_Ri gla’uh pla’rak_

_Ri’el kaula vetlar_

Suddenly the chains that suspend the punching bag break—Spock dodges just in time. The bag falls with a heavy thump and metallic clatter. His knuckles and shins are stinging, flushed green; he waits for his rapid breathing to slow down, then goes to the intercom, requests a repair from technical personnel and leaves.

Having returned to his cabin, Spock performs the necessary ablutions. 10.7 minutes later he is lying under the covers, willing his brain to cease the persistent ruminations.

_Sahr-tor mes’igen, sahr-tor mes’igen_

Dreams bring a vision of the Terran mesosphere: its sapphire vastness gradually acquires an indigo hue, much like the cerulean eyes, darkened by sorrow.

 

During his years in San Francisco Spock frequented a particular hill of Marin Headlands. Away from the Academy, this serene place is suitable for meditation and beholding the ever changing world as a spectator rather than a participant.

Upon waking up today, Spock fathomed one of the strangest Human concepts—being _stifled by walls_. He felt an irresistible yearning for Jim’s presence, almost a physical pull. Not allowing himself to be drawn by the call, Spock could not remain on the ship either. There was an acute need to get out.

It is pleasant to come here before dawn and watch the first rays saturate the chilly cobalt blue with warm peachy tones. Spock is still fascinated by the thick blanket of fog over the bay. Even though it is illogical, the fog has always seemed to him alive: its soft, fluffy belly creeping above the water, now hiding the bridge, now revealing it again as if on a whim.

_Sahr-tor mes’igen, ri tevan’uh_

Why does his memory keep supplying him with snippets from an epic by Elonat, a Pre-reform poet whose works he used to read secretly as an adolescent? Spock is so lost in his musings that a familiar deep, somewhat croaky voice from behind startles him.

“Of course, there you are.”

Spock turns around; the distance between him and his older counterpart is 10.5 feet—it means the lack of concentration has reached a _deplorable_ scale. Interesting, the Ambassador sought him out and knew precisely where he would be. In such instances Spock feels at a disadvantage. What is his business? Does it concern Jim? Covering his surprise, Spock feigns impassivity. 

“Mr. Spock,” he tilts his head.

The Elder approaches, the corners of his mouth slightly curved up in a non-smile Spock sometimes utilizes as well.

“Did you see the captain yesterday?” Spock asks.

“Indeed,” his counterpart has the gall to look complacent.

“How is he?” Spock is constrained to press on. Surely, the Elder understood the previous cue and only amuses himself at Spock’s expense.

“If you are so curious, why don’t you go and visit him?” the Ambassador raises an eyebrow.

“I am not certain whether he would like me to,” Spock confesses. “There are others who can console him better.”

“Nonsense, he needs you,” the Elder waves him off. “He asked about you. Join me, I was planning to—what was the phrase?—drop by.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nam-tor du beyik - You are close to me  
> Ein-wilat be’nash-veh, ri kup-gla-tor - Somewhere near, but I can’t see you  
> Beta’uh, sanu - Please come forth  
> Ri dungau dash-tor - I shall not hurt you  
> Ki’dahshal etek - We had parted  
> Vesht zahal-tor na’irak-yutlar - Followed paths far away  
> Ri gla’uh pla’rak - Don’t look back  
> Ri’el kaula vetlar - There is nothing but doubts  
> Sahr-tor mes’igen, sahr-tor mes’igen - Running across the sky, running across the sky  
> Sahr-tor mes’igen, ri tevan’uh - Running across the sky, don’t fall down
> 
> The poem is a translation of a song which doesn't belong to me.
> 
> Ko’Vel - the Vulcan name for 40 Eridani A  
> loshirak - meditation position - lotus  
> tvi-sochya - state of inner peace arrived at by meditation  
> Suus Mahna - a form of Vulcan martial arts
> 
> Translations into Vulcan were made with the help of information from Vulcan Language Dictionary, Vulcan Language Institute and korsaya.org. A huge respect and gratitude to the founders and developers of these wonderful resources!
> 
> The chocolate scene was inspired by [this](http://vipadafai.tumblr.com/post/76404761144/happy-valentines-day).
> 
> [Chekov's chocolate](http://sweetg.ru/d/367635/d/choclet_gorkiy.jpg) :)


	6. Chapter 6

Spock is tampering down his agitation as he follows the Ambassador along the ICU. Concerns and apprehension are still at the back of his mind; however, at the same time he feels more at ease—the link appears to be less strained. With no effort at all, Spock can clearly pick up Jim’s mood: sad and resolved. Humans call it grim determination.

After three polite knocks the Ambassador goes into the ward. Spock’s heart skips a beat when he hears Jim’s delighted voice.

“Hey Spock!”

“Hello, Jim,” the Elder says genially. “I came not alone today—there is somebody else with me.”

Spock makes a few vacillating steps through the opened door and forces himself to look into Jim’s eyes.

“Spock,” Jim breathes. A brightest smile graces his face as he outstretches his hand.

Spock doesn’t quite remember covering the rest of the distance. There is one thing he desires to do—to hold Jim close, but the wish is inappropriate and must be curbed of course. How could he ever stay away? For a moment, Spock has an impression that Jim is about to take his hand; then Jim’s palm moves higher, and he squeezes Spock’s forearm. Even though the fabric of the sleeve prevents skin-to-skin contact, the link buzzes with energy. Spock casts an astonished and grateful glance at his older self who nods knowingly in return, settling down into the chair by the biobed.

“Why didn’t you come yesterday? You were so busy?” Jim asks, still maintaining the touch.

“I… I apologize, Jim,” Spock manages to say.

“No, it’s fine,” Jim shakes his head, letting go of Spock’s arm. “It must be tough to be doing double duty.”

He turns to the Ambassador and grins at him, “And you, how are you? Also busy with whatever tasks the Colony wants you to solve remotely?”

“I find it fortunate that the High Council accepted my request for a leave of absence with understanding,” the Ambassador says in the same humorous fashion.

“So do I, my friend, so do I,” Jim replies, the smile no longer reaching his pensive eyes.

“Captain, am I correct to assume that Doctor McCoy has allowed you to have a PADD?” Spock inquires, having noticed a Starfleet issued model on Jim’s lap.  

“Oh, this,” Jim waves a hand. “Don’t worry, it’s not Doctor M’Benga’s. Bones figured since I know the truth, there’s no point in secrecy. I was preparing the necessary forms when you guys came. Glad you’re here, Spock—I’d like to tell you of my decision in person.”

So the captain does want a replacement. Spock steels himself.

“After the psych evals confirm that I’m in my right mind,” Jim continues, “I’ll transfer to the Academy, and you’ll be promoted to Captain—I’ll submit the recommendations. That chair in the center is yours by right. It always has been.”

Spock registers the meaning of the words, but cannot process their reality. Jim is going to give up captaincy and the Enterprise? Not possible.

The Ambassador reacts faster, though. “Do you consider teaching more appealing?”

“Teaching?” Jim gives a mirthless smirk. “I’m gonna transfer as a cadet.”

“I do not understand,” Spock regains the ability to speak at last.

“What is the logic of it?” his counterpart asks.

“I have a lot to learn,” Jim exhales and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That chair was granted to me way sooner than it should have been. Now I understand the upside of normal advancement through the ranks which my other self did.”

“Jim, we are not _them_ ,” Spock objects with vehemence he didn’t intend to show.

“This universe is indeed different,” the Elder agrees calmly.

“Professional comp... competence matters in both!” Jim exclaims, choking in the middle of the phrase. He takes a gulp of air; a vein is pulsing on his temple.

“Your judgment of yourself is too harsh, Jim,” the Ambassador says.

“Is it? Really?” Jim’s tone is clipped, it is obvious that he is struggling not to raise it. “Did he ever let the enemy harm the Earth?”

The Ambassador does not answer at once—it takes him several seconds to ponder the response, and that exacerbates the situation.

“I thought as much,” Jim says almost in a whisper. “He fought his battles in space as a proper captain. _Never_ endangered home. I am but a shadow of the man who should have been in my place.”

If you are a shadow, I am a shadow too and have no more right for that chair than you. Spock puts a soothing hand on Jim's back.

The Elder furrows his brow, regarding Jim with a stern intensity.

“Listen to me, Jim. Listen carefully. The last person who encountered my Jim said his final wish was to make a difference. It is very like him, this had been his aspiration throughout all his life. I believe the same is true about you.”

Jim stares at him, wide-eyed and motionless. The Ambassador looks away, his lips pressed together, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and clears his throat.

Spock shifts his hand further across Jim’s back in a protective gesture: no circumstances will separate them in the future, even if it costs Spock a fulfilling employment. He cannot, will not imagine Jim’s passing—not now, not in a long while.

It seems that the Elder’s thoughts took him far from this time and place, his wistful, unseeing gaze directed beyond the physical plane. He tries to keep his face blank, but does not quite succeed. If only fate could have been kinder to him.

“Spock,” Jim murmurs remorsefully.

The Ambassador composes himself and smiles at Jim, “I am sure you can tread your own path with truth and dignity so characteristic of James T. Kirk.”

Heaving a sigh, he stands up, his movements slow, as if a great weight has descended on his shoulders.

“I feel fatigued. It would be better for me to return to the hotel. Don’t make hasty decisions—you may regret them. I’ll visit you tomorrow as usual.”

With that, he leaves.

“My god, I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Jim slouches and covers his face with his hands.

“You can honor him if you don’t yield to desperation,” Spock replies. “Jim, there is a way you can make a difference. As the captain, you can file a request to the Admiralty for further access to Khan’s blood since it was the crew of the Enterprise who captured him. Thus you could help the injured civilians.”

Jim straightens his back, looking up at Spock in confusion, “Wait, what? Other people weren’t treated with the serum?”

Spock withdraws his hand, “No, they were not.”

Jim’s eyes harden with defiance which overpowers his dispirited mood.

“Give me your communicator!” he commands, and Spock is gratified to comply. “Kirk to McCoy! Come in, Bones!”

“McCoy here,” mutters a sleepy voice from the speaker. “What is it, kid?”

“Could we talk? It’s urgent.”

“Be right there,” the doctor switches into an alert mode. “McCoy out.”

 

“But it’s fucking absurd, Bones,” Jim lets out a frustrated snort, having heard out a detailed account of events provided by Spock and Doctor McCoy who arrived 5.3 minutes after the call.  “They won’t permit an extensive research of the drug because the data on it is insufficient? What kind of a shitty excuse is that?”

“Tell me about it,” McCoy scowls and takes a sip of steaming black coffee from a paper cup. The room is filled with a heavy, rich odor of Arabica. The doctor has a mild periorbital swelling due to the interrupted sleep cycle; his tousled hair is sticking up at odd angles. “The brass tucked Khan away in a cryotube as soon as I finished with the blood collection, and everything was quickly hushed up. The whole clusterfuck cast a big shade over Starfleet already, so it’s plain as day that the damned assholes value their prestige more than people’s lives.”

“How much of the blood do you have left?” Jim asks.

“None,” McCoy grumbles with a frown. “Damn, this gives me a sense of déjà vu.”

“Well, it’s definitely a complication,” Jim drawls, scratching his head. “But we’ll come up with something. Um, must it be Khan specifically? Maybe other seventy-two will do? Plus, they’d yield more material than just one man.”

“Hmm, interesting,” McCoy hums in approval. “While the regeneration properties of their blood are lower, it could be of great help for the injured nonetheless.”

“Let me remind you of the ethical aspect,” Spock intervenes. “Those people neither committed any crimes, nor did they give their consent.”

“You’re right,” Jim sighs and rubs his forehead.

“Shit, I forgot about it,” the doctor bites his lip.

“Let’s keep going with what we have,” there are familiar stubborn notes in the captain’s voice. “Spock and I will prepare an official request, but it has to be backed up with facts. Bones, give us all available information.”

“Alright, I’ll go compile everything we’ve got. Just remember, kid, you’re in the process of recovery, don’t overwork yourself,” McCoy turns his head to Spock and points a finger at him. “ _You_ , make sure he doesn’t.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Spock responds obediently.

“Another point… this could pose a problem: we shouldn’t discount a possibility of a sudden manifestation of some serious side-effects. I don’t wanna be pessimistic here, but too little time has passed,” the doctor purses his lips. “It would be easier to draw conclusions if there was a precedent of a successful treatment.”

Spock cowers internally at the thought that Jim’s health may still be at risk.

“I understand, Bones,” Jim nods.

“Anyway, it’s worth a shot,” McCoy reassures him. “Later.”

On his way out, the doctor throws the now empty paper cup into the recycler. When they are alone again, Spock places a hand over Jim’s forearm: it’s clothed—Jim wears a long-sleeved uniform undershirt and a pair of old sweatpants. Craving this physical affirmation of Jim’s well-being is a weakness—a weakness Spock wouldn’t exchange for the poise that stems from detachment.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Jim squeezes Spock’s bicep with the other hand. “And Spock, I have one more idea.”

 

3.1 hours later Spock is assisting Jim in preparation of the request when McCoy returns with a PADD.

“Look who’s here,” the doctor says.

He is followed by a slender woman in a black sheath dress. Her pale, chiseled features are almost Vulcan-like in their tranquility, the delicate face framed by long dark hair. Admiral Pike fondly called his wife Number One in reminiscence of serving together on USS Republic as Captain and First Officer. Spock has admired her objective and dispassionate way of thinking since his first assignment on the same ship after the Academy.

“Jim, Spock,” she greets them with a small bow of her head.

“Ms. Robbins,” Spock gets up and offers her the seat.

“Hello Eurel,” Jim beams as they shake hands. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“It’s good to see you getting well,” Ms. Robbins replies, the cadence of her deep voice gentle. “I was about to call you myself.”

“You’ll know if I suddenly decide to conquer the quadrant,” Jim shrugs.

Ms. Robbins arches her perfectly shaped eyebrows in amusement and asks, “What did you wish to discuss?”

Jim’s expression grows serious.

“Your charity fund, Star Family Foundation. It helps families of those who were on the ships destroyed by the Narada, right?”

“I started with this a year ago, after resigning,” Ms. Robbins shifts gracefully in the chair, taking a more comfortable position. “Later we expanded our support to families of other deceased Starfleet members and its civilian contractors. Now the fund provides free legal consulting, additional insurance and compensations. Why?”

“Is it possible to send relief through your fund to the victims of the recent assault on San Francisco?”

“We are already working with them.”

“Then I’d like to donate eighty percent of credits from my Starfleet account.”

“And I shall double the amount,” Spock adds.

“Seriously, you two can’t be left without supervision,” McCoy makes a face. “Do you always have to invent something crazy? What are you going to live on?”

“We spend most of the time in deep space and require little to none of our financial means. It would be a rational method of their application,” Spock explains, unperturbed by the doctor’s emotional outburst.

“Your intention is noble, but I agree with Len,” Ms. Robbins demurs. “Are you sure you want to donate so much?”

“I’ve given it a great deal of thought and won’t change my mind. It’s the least I can do to... to be useful,” Jim exhales heavily. “Please.”

“I concur with Jim,” Spock says.

“Well, I could donate within reasonable limits too,” McCoy scratches his chin.

“In this case, thank you for your generosity, gentlemen,” Eurel’s lips curve up a little.

“Thank _you_ , for all that you’re doing,” Jim meets her gaze and smiles back.

Ms. Robbins keeps silent. She contemplates something for 1.4 minutes, a crease on her forehead marring her porcelain skin.

“Len told me about your predicament,” she finally speaks. “One of the families that contacted our fund was the Harewoods, a mother and a daughter. By now the little girl named Lucille has achieved a complete recovery from a terminal illness. Guess what her father got as a payment for blowing up the archive with the acquiescence of certain Admirals? Elements of Harrison’s blood should be still traceable in hers.”

“So it wasn’t just Marcus alone,” Jim snarls.

Although Spock suspected this, he was too preoccupied for investigating. But of course Ms. Robbins searched for clues.

“Chris mentioned the special tribunal, didn’t he? Marcus wouldn’t have accomplished everything by himself. It was an elaborate plan to get their power game going and eliminate the opponents under a credible pretext. They displaced you and gave the Enterprise to Chris, thus he attended that meeting.” The grief in Eurel’s slate gray eyes is raw when she says it; her shoulders slump.  In a moment she forces her face into a neutral expression, and her posture becomes immaculate again. “This is all I managed to find out through my channels. However, I don’t have any substantial proofs.”

“We will,” Jim clenches his fists.

Ms. Robins looks at Jim and Spock with affection and smirks.

“Oh, just promise me not to hack the databases or you both will end up in jail.”

“Why are you so sure Spock will participate in my hairbrained schemes?” Jim asks, assuming an air of innocence.

“Your influence corrupted him beyond repair,” Ms. Robbins states matter-of-factly. “He’ll join you headlong in any of your stunts.”

Spock opens his mouth to protest and closes it because… she is quite correct. The fact should be unsettling, but somehow it is not.

“Spock also influences me—honestly, I became more logical!” Jim puts his hands up. “I didn’t fire the torpedoes at Klingons, for example. Say, Spock?”

“I have no comment,” Spock replies, putting his arms behind his back.

Ms. Robbins stays for another half an hour. They talk of the fund, of needs the affected civilians have, and share recollections about Admiral Pike.

“Why did she resign?” McCoy asks in awe after she is gone.

“Prior to Nero’s attack on Vulcan Ms. Robbins had suffered a severe injury during a mission, and at the time she was undergoing rehabilitation on Earth,” Spock relates the backstory. “As you are aware, subsequently Admiral Pike’s health was precarious, so she resigned to take care of him.”

 

The next morning Spock’s counterpart visits as he promised. Jim is beside himself with joy and sets to making amends at once.

“Sorry about my behavior yesterday,” he pleads, licking his lips nervously. “Sorry for making you bring up painful memories.”

“Do not be,” the Ambassador pats him on the shoulder. “Memories of my Jim are my greatest treasure. I am blessed to have had his friendship and love.”

His long thin fingers reach into the folds of his robe and close around a small metallic pendant on a fine chain.

 

In two days they submit the request for review of the Admiralty. By the end of the week Jim successfully passes the necessary psych evals, and on Friday he is summoned to a meeting with the Board. It is suspicious that they did not give a direct answer. Spock doesn’t like it at all.

Jim has changed into his dress uniform and is checking himself out in a hall mirror.

“Lo and behold, everything the man needs to be happy again,” McCoy snorts, returning a PADD to a nurse after signing.

“I suppose if I do get sad it’s not for too long,” Jim agrees with a smug grin. “I just look in the mirror and go, ‘What a good-looking fuck you are.’”

The doctor lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Hurry up or you two will be late.”

“What do you mean ‘you two’?” Jim narrows his eyes.

“I shall accompany you, Jim,” Spock tells him.

“That’s why you’re all suited up? But the Admiralty summoned me alone,” Jim replies, perplexed.

“I will be able to justify my attendance,” Spock insists.

“As can I,” McCoy folds his arms over his chest. “Spock should be there with you. Facing the Board that outnumbered? Puh-lease! You’re on a sick leave, man, remember?”

“Okay. I’m glad to have your support, to be honest,” Jim glances at Spock warmly. “Let’s go then.”

They set off, falling into step as usual, and there is something soothing about it—Spock is at his Captain’s side, where he belongs, ready for any challenges. Jim notices the doctor trotting along in their wake and gasps.

“Wait a minute. Bones, are you coming too?”

“I’ll be outside, in the corridor, for the reason I’ve already mentioned,” McCoy says, slipping the strap of a medikit over his shoulder.  His tone makes it clear that he will tolerate no objections.

 

Meeting room 374F is in a far wing of HQ, in the old part of the building. Two heavy doors close behind the captain and Spock. They walk to stand in the center of the room, in front of a semi-circular table. Three highest ranking Starfleet officers are seated at it: Admiral Gregory Fitzgerald—Commander in Chief, Admiral Heihachiro Nogura—Chief of Staff, and Admiral Dexter Armbruster—Acting Chief of Starfleet Operations.

“Captain Kirk, you cannot bring a support group here, including your First Officer,” Nogura, a wiry, sharp-eyed man, sneers at Jim. “But obviously you still think that rules don’t apply to you.”

“Commander Spock is present in accordance with the recommendation from my physician,” Jim answers in an impassive and composed manner. “I need an attendant due to my health condition, sir.”

“Moreover, since I functioned as Acting Captain during the incident with Khan, I am directly involved in this matter,” Spock says.

Nogura’s expression turns sour, but before he can object, the Commander in Chief, his only superior, speaks up.

“Very well,” Fitzgerald’s booming voice echoes across the room as his bleak gray eyes measure the captain and Spock with a sullen gaze. “We decline your request, Captain Kirk. Lucille Harewood is a single example of a full recovery, hence it can’t be extrapolated on other cases.”

“Then allow an extensive research, sir. So many lives can be saved!” Jim steps forward.

“Even if the man is torn to shreds, there won’t be enough for everyone,” Nogura waves him off. “How do you propose to choose who is more worthy?”

“One more sample could be enough for development of a synthetic compound on its basis,” Spock counters. “Doctor McCoy and I discussed at length this possibility. It may take up to three weeks if a dedicated research team works on it around the clock. In prospect, the resulting medication would retain many regenerative qualities and facilitate rehabilitation of the injured civilians. This option was briefly outlined in the request, sirs.”

“Our decision stands,” Fitzgerald’s reply is flat. “Any manipulations with the terrorist Harrison are a potential threat to Starfleet information security.”

“Sir, as you know, I have the right to appeal against this decision to the President of the United Federation of Planets,” Jim frowns.

“Yes, you do have the right,” Armbruster, who was quietly observing until now, steeples his fingers. Marcus’s protégé from Intelligence, he took over the position of his mentor. “And we can assess efficiency of the Enterprise during the confrontation in near-Earth space. You and Commander Spock won’t be affected by a low grade—you saved the Earth last year, but your crew… many of them will be demoted if not transferred to reserve.”

Jim pales and reels slightly, overcome by a bout of dizziness, and Spock grasps him by the elbow.

“Jim, you should better sit,” he whispers to the captain.

“No, it’s alright,” Jim straightens up, freeing his elbow from Spock’s hand.

Spock feels through their link that Jim’s energy is depleted, but he respects the captain’s dignity and does not impose unsolicited help on him. Meanwhile, the Admirals seem to be contented with Jim’s reaction almost to the point of scorn. Spock reins in his rising anger and indignation.

“Here’s a piece of advice for you, son,” Fitzgerald tilts his chin up. “Let it go. The President wants you to lead the five-year mission.”

“The five-year mission?” Jim repeats, numb all over.

“Yes, and a full refit of the Enterprise. What’s not to love?” Nogura huffs, exchanging meaningful glances with Armbruster.

“Dismissed,” Fitzgerald says curtly.

Without a word, Jim turns and stalks off. Spock hurries after him, aware that Jim is on the verge of collapse and holds his head high through sheer will.

Once in the corridor, Jim sinks down—Spock catches him and lifts him in his arms. McCoy rushes to them. Muttering profanities, the doctor scans Jim and presses a hypo against his neck.

 

The sun has set, and the ward is submerged in twilight shadows. Jim regained consciousness, even ate a little, but he was weak and exhausted, so he fell asleep with an IV in his vein. It is so painful to see how they crushed him with their disgusting, ruthless strategy. No one is allowed to hurt Jim. They shall regret it.

“Since you’re going to be here the whole night, at least try to sleep or meditate or whatever you do,” McCoy tells Spock, removing the IV. “And have dinner for god's sake! For Jim's sake—he’ll worry if you look like shit in the morning.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I thought to wrap everything up in two more chapters. Oh well... XD

Now that Jim has been sleeping for 10.7 hours, his complexion is visibly healthier. Rays of the morning light are glistening in his dark blond hair, gild his lashes, kiss his skin—each tiny mole, his upturned nose, his full lips. A faint haze of stubble outlines his jaw. It would feel rough and prickly under Spock’s fingers.

Jim stirs, opens his eyes, and smiles when their gazes meet.

“Hey,” he murmurs in a hoarse voice.

“Good morning, Jim,” Spock replies softly.

“You stayed here all this time…” Jim concludes by Spock’s dress uniform: the same clothes from the previous day. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I wished to.”

Being near, making sure Jim is well, looking into his eyes heedless of time—Spock got so used to this private microcosm where just the two of them exist. It is his _rau-nol_ that fills him with a profound sense of peace no meditation is capable to give. Life before, without it, was lacking, and Spock didn’t even know it was. The words his counterpart said in the shuttle hangar more than a year ago cross his mind again. It is indeed a defining relationship: they fell into each other’s gravity and became a binary system, _eku weh-lo’uk do tum t’on_.

Beeping of Spock’s communicator disrupts their quiet moment.

“The ship?” Jim asks.

“Yes,” Spock swipes the message away. “I’ll come back as soon as I finish.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jim grins, raising himself on his elbows. “It’s comforting to know our lady is in safe hands.”

 

Spock’s duties keep him busy until 1545 hours, and while he gives his full and undivided attention to them, there is a vague sense at the edges of his mind, akin to a premonition, that Jim is devising something. Finally free, Spock returns to the captain’s ward and finds Jim pacing by the window.

“Listen, Spock, I’ve been thinking…” Jim begins, but Spock interrupts him.

“If you refer to the further course of action, we cannot discuss it here.”

“You mean the surveillance cameras?” Jim huffs. “I tinkered with them a bit.”

“ _Jim_ ,” Spock admonishes. He should have expected that Jim would have no qualms about breaking half a dozen regulations.

“They won’t see any difference, trust me,” Jim stops in front of Spock. There is a challenge in his cerulean eyes as if he dares Spock to doubt his sabotaging abilities. Spock does not, though—merely raises an eyebrow. Jim tilts his head slightly down and continues, “It seems like I’ll have to stick with my original plan. Minor changes: I’m not transferring to the Academy, I’m quitting.”

It is like one of those moments during their chess matches when Jim makes a particularly illogical move. Spock is perplexed to no end.

“Please elaborate,” he cannot contain his scandalized tone.

“Only this might bring the issue to the attention of the President,” Jim obliges. “I can’t give interviews to the press—that would be as ruining for the crew as contacting the President directly, and I’m _not_ gonna continue as a Starfleet’s poster boy on such conditions.”

Therefore you decided to spite Starfleet. Is it really worth it? You are being juvenile.

Spock doesn’t let his irritation spread—he promptly stops the emotion. Quarrelling with Jim is the last thing he wants. The idea of aligning with Khan seemed preposterous as well but it had its merits. In any case, Jim needs Spock’s support and advice, not harsh words.

“Are you certain there are no other solutions?” Spock asks as kindly and patiently as possible. “What if your plan fails and the President will not initiate an investigation?”

Jim lowers his eyes, grimacing.

“It’s a gamble I’m willing to take,” his voice sounds hollow. “If there’s no dice, I’ll think of something else. Now time is of the essence, so many injured are in a critical state.”

Despite the dire circumstances, such a step must be considered with caution. What could make Jim postpone acting on this decision… Its implications would be immense, including their separation. No, Spock cannot allow this to happen.

“Then I too shall resign,” he says.

“Excuse me?” Jim gapes at him.

“Thus we shall have more chances,” Spock reasons. “If we both resign, the Admiralty will be in a very inconvenient position. It will be much harder to explain to the President.”

“Spock, no,” Jim holds up a hand. “I appreciate your gesture of solidarity, but you can’t risk your career like that. Besides, what of the Enterprise? Who will look after her?”

“Jim, please, don’t…” Spock implores, gazing at Jim intensely. “I cannot stand the thought of being parted from you.”

He puts his palm over Jim’s hand, not caring anymore that he commits an indiscretion, and is instantly engulfed by a warm, gentle, fuzzy feeling. It has been there all along, seeping through the link, reflected in Jim’s eyes—Spock took it for affection of a friend. Now he understands what it is, so deep and strong that everything else fades in the background. The link between them is glowing, nourished by this powerful energy, it asks for more, yearns for completion. _Requited_. It is true. How...

The next second Jim covers Spock's lips with his own. At first Spock is too stunned to react, his senses overloaded: Jim’s taste, Jim’s scent, their breaths mingling. The warmth of Jim's body and mind are now all-encompassing, his lips soft and chapped. Spock’s eyes fall shut; he wraps his arms around Jim and opens up for him.

Jim’s kiss grows desperate, insistent, his embrace almost crushing as their tongues slide against each other. The flutter of his heartbeat wakes a primal urge to protect and possess. Spock’s own heart is pounding in his side. _My Jim. My mate._ Light-headed, Spock reciprocates with all that he is, finesse and restraint forgotten, until they both gasp for air.

“You feel the same way,” Jim radiates sizzling happiness mixed with surprise and disbelief, his eyes dark sapphire, lips kiss-swollen—the most beautiful being Spock has ever met.

“Yes,” Spock pants and lunges at him again.

Jim moans, carding his hand through Spock’s hair.

“Ugh, not in the hospital, you lovebirds.”

They pull back and turn, still in each other’s arms, to see Doctor McCoy snort at the door.

“Then discharge me already, Bones,” Jim laughs, his face alight and eyes crinkling. “Spock will take care of me.”

“Oh sure, right,” McCoy glances at Spock pointedly.

Perhaps the doctor assumes that Spock explained to Jim everything, but Spock never gathered the courage for it. Guilt spikes in the pit of Spock’s stomach as he releases Jim.

“Seriously, Bones, I’m sick and tired of being here,” Jim lets go of Spock and makes a step towards McCoy. “I’d recover faster in my apartment.”

“Remind me when you received your medical qualification?” McCoy sneers.

“Aw, come on!”

Spock is relieved that they are too busy with the altercation to notice his momentary slip of control. What if Jim ceases any association with him? But it is Spock’s moral duty, so explanation is in order.

“Except for the recent occasion, your vitals have been quite stable,” McCoy drawls in mock thoughtfulness, then a smile breaks his cantankerous veneer. “Alright, you can go home.”

“Thanks, Bones!” Jim nearly wrenches the doctor off the ground in what Humans call an ursine… no, a bear hug.

“I’ll drop by for daily check-ups, mind you,” McCoy grumbles, disentangling himself and producing a medscan bracelet from his pocket. “Wear this. And no hanky-panky at least for a week, got it?”

He glares at Spock, apparently to emphasize the importance of this directive. Spock doesn’t have a chance to answer: Jim snatches the bracelet, grabs his hand and leads him past McCoy, out of the ward.

 

They are walking hand in hand, fingers entwined—an immodest display by Vulcan standards. However, there are no Vulcans in vicinity, and if there were, Spock would disregard them. _Jim loves him_. Decorum is a nuisance. Why was Spock so oblivious? He believed he could read Jim well, but missed the signs. It does not matter. Jim’s elation added to his own is inebriating.

“I still can’t believe it, I must be dreaming,” Jim tightens his grip.

“My sentiment exactly,” Spock caresses the back of Jim’s hand with his thumb.

Jim chortles, and Spock wants to kiss him breathless right in the middle of the street. This is when an acute sensation of somebody watching them slams at his shields. Spock dispels the tension that crept into his posture; suppressing an instinct to turn his head, he lowers the shields. Yes, a person approximately 16.4 feet away projects very loudly, and it is someone familiar: Spock perceived her muted presence at the hospital all the time. She must be a nurse or posed as one.

Jim gives him a questioning look.

“We are being followed,” Spock whispers.

“Intel has probably been spying on us since our return to Earth,” Jim smiles at Spock tenderly, as if they are exchanging endearments. “My apartment might need clearing out the pests.”

“Starfleet can invoke the right for surveillance of accommodation it provides.”

“That’s the reason I got my own digs. In fact, it was the first thing I did after becoming Captain.”

 

Spock has been in Jim’s apartment before, albeit briefly. It is a spacious and convenient studio. Large windows overlook the downtown, offering a clear view of Starfleet HQ. Last time the place appeared rather unlived-in; now the impersonal modern furnishing is accented with the owner’s touch: photographs, paper books, an analog clock, a bicycle, even a vinyl record player—Jim must have gone to great lengths to obtain it.

The defense system scanned Jim’s biometric data upon entry, and he proceeded with checking at once. His voice command activated a medium-sized console which was concealed in the wall of the hall area. Spock notes the optimized parameters. Most likely, Jim rewrote some parts of the core.

“Okay, there’s something interesting,” Jim rubs his chin. “Two attempts of unauthorized access. They thought the third was successful, but the system recorded all their moves. Hmm, bugs here and there, and ooh, we have a rat. Nice try, Intel.”

“Quite mediocre,” Spock agrees.

“Hey, admit it,” Jim nudges Spock’s shoulder with his, “you liked my subroutine for Kobayashi Maru.”

Back then, Cadet James T. Kirk impressed Spock before they met face to face. His coding was not only efficient, it was exquisite: its harmonious structure could be compared to a splendid piece of poetry or music. Spock goes to dismantle the surveillance equipment, hiding his little smile to no avail. The link ripples with mirth as Jim also applies himself to the task.

It takes 20.7 minutes to gather all units.

“With this material evidence you can press charges for trespass and invasion of privacy,” Spock says as they throw the last ones into a shoe box.

“Yeah, at the appropriate time,” Jim sighs. He looks pale. The search was too much of a strain for him.

“Jim, it would be advisable for you to lie down,” Spock reaches out and runs his hand along Jim’s arm.

Jim closes the distance between them, and they kiss, slowly, deeply, exploring with relish. No one will interrupt them. Spock cradles the back of Jim’s head as Jim nibbles his lower lip. The link saturates from both ends with simmering desire—it shouldn’t be allowed to burn, Jim requires rest—but Spock has no power to withdraw, tasting Jim again and again, cannot get enough of him, wanted him for so long. Finally having him is _home_ , a sense Spock didn’t know to such extent even on Vulcan. Shunning _this_ … he simply did not understand what he was rejecting.

When the kiss ends, Jim leans onto Spock and whispers in his ear, “Lie with me.”

“Come,” Spock takes his hand.

By the bed, Spock removes his boots, and Jim kicks off his sneakers. They settle atop the bedspread, on their sides, limbs tangled. Spock strokes Jim’s knuckles with his index and middle fingers, traces the back of Jim’s hand and to the wrist, to the pulsing vein. Jim’s energy is titillating under Spock’s fingertips. Spock pours through the touch gentleness, care, and love, sending as much vitality as he can to alleviate some of Jim’s fatigue.

“Are you kissing me the Vulcan way or something?” Jim groans.

“It is called _ozh’esta_, its intimate type. There is a variation acceptable in public, an equivalent for holding hands in the Human culture,” Spock folds Jim’s hand into the same shape and crosses their extended fingers. The exchange of energy declines, it is barely present, just enough to provide reassurance. Jim regards the position with curiosity, then glides his fingers tentatively up and down. Spock’s breath hitches. Encouraged, Jim outlines the joints of Spock’s thumb, rubs small circles at its base—Spock shivers as electric impulses run throughout his body, blood rushing to the lower part of his belly.

“This is not, though?” Jim smirks. His playful mood is underlined with weariness, the link communicates it distinctly. He ceases the teasing and winds his arm around Spock’s waist. “I feel so good with you. If you are around I always feel better.”

Jim’s being unaware of the whole truth is inexcusable. No more delays. Spock is about to speak, but Jim places a light kiss on the tip of his nose and inhales contentedly.

“After seeing you at the disciplinary hearing I couldn’t get you out of my head, despite myself,” a blush colors Jim’s cheeks in a most alluring fashion. “Then we fought Nero together, and then I suddenly was to lead my first mission as an actual captain. I just couldn’t assign anyone else as XO. Bones was annoyed, complained I was blabbering about you non-stop. Once he snapped and told me I had it bad. It was an eye-opener—he was right.”

Remorse hits Spock hard.

“I didn’t fully realize until… when you… when I…,” he starts to hyperventilate, the phantom of the glass rising before his eyes again. “I should have been more astute.”

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Jim cups his cheek gently.

Spock brings Jim’s hand to his lips and kisses the palm. Jim rolls Spock onto his back; they lie still, Jim draped over Spock, his breath soothing against Spock’s neck. Spock holds his Human close. 10.3 minutes later Jim drifts off, and slipping into light meditation is easy and effortless.

 

The nap was refreshing for Jim. Upon waking he wished to practice his cooking skills and prepare a genuine meal, which meant foregoing synthetized ingredients, hence they went to a local market. Spock kept his shields lower than usual and found out they were under a scrutinous observation—a direct consequence of the equipment inside the apartment being disabled. He was loath to leave Jim for a short period, but it was necessary to fetch some belongings from the ship, especially Spock’s customized tricoder to ensure that there were no deficiencies in the defense system of the apartment.

The vegetable stew Jim prepared for dinner is superb. He blushes again and smiles shyly at Spock’s praise of the taste, saying that this is one of the simple dishes he could master. Since they are alone, Spock doesn’t have to suppress an impulse to trail his fingers down Jim’s flushed neck, feel his vibrant reaction. It is new, and yet so right, to touch Jim without inhibition. This is how it should be.

“We’ll get distracted,” Jim lets out a shaky laugh, pinning Spock with his gaze—the color of his eyes is a stormy sea.

“Doctor McCoy will be quite chagrined,” Spock concurs.

Jim glances at the medscan bracelet on his wrist and scoffs. It seems to remind him of something: he frowns, pulling at it absent-mindedly.

“Bones did donate a considerable amount to Eurel’s fund. Remember Eurel implied that Pike’s death wasn’t an accident? That those fuckers were getting rid of their opponents? We should have a look at Pike’s home terminal; his work station is useless by now.”

“Nyota and Mr. Sulu organized a fund-raising campaign and are working with Ms. Robbins to promote it, so they could deliver a message to her covertly.”

“They did that?” Jim gasps. “Our crew is the best!”

His awe and pride resonate with Spock’s own. It was uplifting to hear from Nyota of this endeavor: the crew responded with enthusiasm, even people from other ships joined in. Spock was going to share the news with Jim in the morning, before their conversation took another turn.

“They are very inspired by your idea,” Spock inclines his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rau-nol – refuge  
> eku weh-lo’uk do tum t’on – the whole greater than the sum of both. A paraphrased saying of Surak. Its original version: Ma etek natyan – teretuhr lau etek shetau weh-lo’uk do tum t’on. (We have differences. May we, together, become greater than the sum of both [of us]).  
> ozh’esta – finger embrace
> 
> (Vulcan Language Dictionary, Vulcan Language Institute)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, the reason why I started writing this fic was to figure out how the t'hy'la bond works. It evolved into a detailed headcanon: I've always been curious how Vulcans distinguish between the types of bonds and know unmistakably if they meet their t'hy'la, despite it being very rare.

The city lights are glimmering in the dark, blurred by the opaque setting of the windows. 0417, his time sense supplies. Spock nuzzles Jim’s nape, enjoying his mate’s scent, and kisses his shoulder. They are aligned together in spooning, a curious name for a type of embrace. Usually Spock would get up upon waking, but he lets himself stay in bed a little longer, focusing on the feeling of happiness, cherishing every moment with Jim.

Later, having performed his morning ablutions, Spock goes to the study area for his PADD. He has barely started to check the ship’s status when the link fills with a dull, nagging sense of uneasiness. Spock springs to his feet and hurries to the bed. Jim is tossing and turning in his sleep, his eyebrows knitted, quiet grunts escaping his lips. The PADD thrown aside onto the bed, Spock sheds his home robe, gets under the covers and takes Jim in his arms, projecting calming energy. Soon Jim relaxes: his breath becomes deep and even again as the tension leaves his body. He murmurs something indiscernible and puts his leg over Spock. Spock smiles to himself, shifts carefully to lie on his back and reaches for the PADD.

 

The meeting room where Spock briefs Nyota is safe. The conjecture that Admiral Pike’s demise can be connected to his views is quite probable: with integrity and sense of duty inherent to him, the Admiral indeed might have searched for ways to expose the conspirers if he knew of their activities. This should have occurred to Spock previously. Nyota counters that there was a lot on his mind. Perhaps.

During the day, she passes the message to Ms. Robbins and brings gruesome news: the Admiral’s home computer was infected, data scrambled beyond repair as a result. Spock thinks of his mentor with sorrow and warmth and still asks for the terminal in hope to try and salvage something. Jim pretends that he is not upset, but his frustration is building up. He avoids brooding by helping Spock with the ship’s daily documentation. Several times Spock tries to talk of their link and fails.

They resume playing chess. Jim brushes their fingers deliberately over the pieces, intent on learning more about _el’mestaya_. When they lie in bed, he absorbs all Spock shows him. Every so often Spock has to withdraw his hand to will down the arousal. Jim is an excellent student.

“Why do you care about Bones’s antics that much?” he laughs once.

“Doctor McCoy’s recommendations regarding your health are to be taken with due seriousness,” Spock replies, mentally citing Surak’s quotes on moral virtues, which will be futile should Jim test his resolve further.

“Bones outdid himself,” Jim grumbles, “cock-blocking me even in his absence.”

 

In two days the entire bridge crew visits Ms. Robbins in her office for a promotional holo and a press conference. The terminal obtained discreetly, Doctor McCoy hides it in his medikit bag and accompanies Jim and Spock to the apartment.

Four more days elapse in painstaking recovery of the file system—sector after sector. Although it would have been much faster with the Enterprise computer, resorting to it is obviously out of the question. Jim is engrossed in the work, and it is difficult to make him keep regular hours. At least he takes breaks to go for walks with the Ambassador.

When the process is eventually completed, they come across a hidden archive which must have appeared as an empty space before the data recovery.

“What the hell is this?” Jim frowns, staring at the strings of alien coding on the screen.

“A Talosian encryption method,” Spock recognizes it momentarily. “In my first year under Captain Pike’s command, the Republic discovered an ancient, very sophisticated civilization on Talos IV. Among other achievements, Talosians developed highly effective principles of programming. Captain Pike was fascinated and asked me to adapt some of those for personal usage.”

“Yeah, it looks remarkable.”

Spock launches an algorithm necessary for data conversion and explains how the method works. Jim listens attentively, asking thoughtful questions now and then. He acquires a complete understanding of the principles by the time the conversion is complete, and even suggests some alternate options for further development. An excellent student indeed.

The information Admiral Pike collected is appalling. It is not enough to incriminate certain individuals, but the general direction is clear: Khan’s statements are fully confirmed. Starfleet is to be militarized and used for Human expansion in the quadrant. With Vulcans on the brink of extinction, engaged in survival measures, there will be no force in the Federation to contain this aggressive course—Andor, Tellar, and other members are most likely to neglect peacekeeping in favor of pursuing their own ambitions. This change of values will be only solidified after election of a new Federation President next year.

“Holy hell,” Jim scowls. “And Pike didn’t say anything to keep us safe, of course. Perhaps he didn’t even know it was Marcus and Co., and they got him before he got them.”

“I wonder if he collaborated with others who opposed to the scheme,” Spock furrows his brow. “Not all of them might have been planetside at the time, so the conspirers could have attempted to eliminate them under the guise of dangerous missions.”

“That’s what a proper investigation will help to find out once I drop a hint to the right people. Difficult, but possible, just like in the good ole days. Alright, coffee first.”

Jim gets up from the desk, stretches, and heads to the kitchen area. The wording alerts Spock.

“It should take us approximately two and a half days to access the President’s channel with the necessary degree of safety, so that our presence remains untraceable,” he says, following Jim.

“Then I’ll need five days minimum,” Jim mutters, entering a sequence for his favorite blend into the synthesizer.

“Five days?” Spock repeats. This can’t be good.

“You’re going to your apartment, Spock,” Jim raises his eyes at him. “You’ve helped enough. Let them see you have nothing to do with what is going to happen.”

“We’re together in this,” Spock insists indignantly. He suspected as much—Jim makes a decision, for them both this time, and doesn’t even bother to discuss it.

“No, we’re not,” Jim replies in a clipped, steely tone. “Back off, that’s an order.”

“Your authority does not extend to such matters. You cannot order me,” Spock hisses.

“Spock, we may end up court-martialled or killed!” Jim puts the cup of coffee on the table with a loud bang—the coffee spills over.

“I saw you die once. Don’t you understand?” Spock grabs him by the shoulders. “We could seek refuge on New Vulcan. If Starfleet requests our arrest, it can be arranged that we are imprisoned there, not on Earth. There the conspirers have no power. I will gladly share any lot with you rather than be separated from you. I told you already.”

Jim’s gaze grows sad. Spock is afraid he applied too much force and releases Jim at once, apologizing, but Jim hugs him. Tenderness, remorse, and love, so much love pour through the link that Spock’s heart skips a beat as he returns the embrace. Closing his eyes, Spock presses his lips to his mate’s neck. My Jim. Jim sighs and tilts his head up—Spock trails kisses over his Adam’s apple, along his jaw, his cheek. When he reaches Jim’s lips, they kiss and kiss, stealing each other’s breaths, buzzing energy ricocheting between them. Jim pushes his hands past Spock’s tunic and undershirt and caresses his stomach and chest—Spock’s whole body is tingling. He is getting hard and feels Jim’s answering arousal hot against his groin as they are walking blindly towards the sleeping area.

The back of Spock’s legs hit the bed. He falls onto the mattress with Jim on top of him. Jim settles between his legs, rubbing their erections together, making Spock leak for him, the natural lubrication soaking through too many layers of fabric. Their link is heavy with need. The link…

“Jim, Jim,” Spock breaks the kiss and tries to hold Jim back.

“The week has passed,” Jim all but growls, bucking his hips.

“That’s not it,” Spock shakes his head.

Jim stops immediately.

“What’s wrong? Too soon for this?” he asks, concerned.

“There is something you must know,” Spock forces himself to say. They both sit up, Jim looking even more worried by Spock’s apparent distress. “Jim, we are linked telepathically.”

“Wha-what?” Jim stutters. Shock and bewilderment that come from him don’t make it any easier to speak.

“I became aware of the link one year, two months, and five days ago.”

“That’s about a month after our first assignment… You mean you’ve been hearing my thoughts all this time and didn’t tell me?”

“There was no breach of your privacy,” Spock objects hurriedly. “Even spouses cannot do that unless their thoughts are directed specifically at each other. For the past year I could vaguely sense your presence. As we became closer over these weeks, I began to perceive your strongest emotions and the state of your general well-being, but the link will not evolve any further by itself.”

“How did it appear in the first place?” Jim withdraws, putting more distance between them. Spock wants to take his hand, but Jim doesn’t let him.

“The formation was spontaneous, which is a quite rare phenomenon among my people. It happens only to _k’hat’n’dlawa_ and _t’hylara_. Mental compatibility is highly valued in the Vulcan society. It is important for efficiency of work groups, and even more so for telepathic connections between friends and family. It is the main criterion in choosing a spouse, gender and other considerations being secondary. The stronger is the bond the better support it is for the mind.  _K’hat’n’dlawa_ are a couple whose minds and _katra_ are so finely attuned they complement each other. The ancients called it ‘the two of one heart and soul’.”

“A perfect match.”

“Yes. Once in vicinity, such minds naturally seek connection and form a _k’war’ma’khon_ , a link shared by closest friends when created consciously. If the couple decides to complete it, they bond as spouses. _T’hy’la_ is a particular case of _k’hat’n’dlawa_. An initial link binds exceptionally compatible male couples on two levels instead of one. It held a special meaning in the Pre-reform period: _t’hylara_ were brothers in arms. The structure of a female brain prevents the link from reaching the familial center—a fail-safe of sorts. A male brain provides no fail-safe. If _t’hylara_ complete the bond, their union transcends distance and time. Should one of them die, the vestiges of the bond stay, and the surviving _t’hy’la_ carries the loss for the rest of his life.”

“Until death do us part, literally. It must have really freaked you out, to be soulmates with someone like me. Is it possible to get rid of this thing?”

“At present, yes, if you wish to,” Spock replies, shuddering. “It already broke once, _that day_ , but formed again due to our proximity. Jim, I am blessed to be your _t’hy’la_. I kept this from you because you repeatedly risked your life protecting me when I displayed irrational behavior in the wake of The Immeasurable Loss. With the knowledge, you could have become partial, and your command decisions would have been affected.”

“What changed then?” Jim asks bitterly.

“You are partial regardless. So am I. This weakness is our strength, I realize it now. Together _t’hylara_ are formidable, that is why their connection is revered from prehistoric times and considered sacred.”

“And here I thought we were a great command team thanks to intuition, chemistry, whatever. Right, everything’s because of the link. You figured it’s better to put up with it. Practical. Convenient.”

Jim’s pale face is unreadable, but the stinging hurt, disappointment and sorrow that flow from him are akin to a heavy blow to Spock’s stomach.

“No, Jim, no,” he implores. “I... I cherish thee.”

Biting his lip, Jim turns away.

“Maybe the link makes you.”

Spock’s shields are crumbling, his chest constricted with guilt. He doesn’t dare to touch Jim, only tries to reach him with words.

“Not more than it makes you—our link is so strong due to the feelings we have for each other, not vice versa. I deeply apologize for depriving you of your right. It was morally wrong and against the Vulcan tradition. Should you wish to cease our romantic relationship, I shall respect your boundaries. But… let me help. Let me stay by your side. _Please_.”

Jim does not answer. Asking forgiveness is pointless, for the offence is unforgivable. Spock whispers weakly nonetheless, “I am sorry.”

There was too much arrogance in the good intentions. If Jim disdains him, it will be well-deserved. Wrong assumptions are to be paid for. Spock hangs his head low. The thought of breaking the link makes him dizzy and nauseous. It was terrible, terrible to be deprived of his _t’hy’la_ ’s light, to be left behind, alone. Yet Jim lives and is on his way to a complete recovery. Nothing is more important. This is his choice.

Suddenly, Jim’s compassion envelops Spock like a warm, soft blanket.

“Come here,” Jim says, drawing Spock into his arms.

“Jim!” Spock gasps and clings to him for dear life.

“This _t’h_ … is pretty grand,” Jim strokes Spock’s back soothingly. “Yeah, I’m pissed at you. Still, can’t blame you for being confused.”

“Jim,” Spock buries his face in the juncture between Jim’s neck and shoulder.

“My willful Vulcan,” Jim sighs. “Always making decisions without me.”

“This appears to be our common trait,” Spock mumbles.

“My sassy Vulcan. Touché,” Jim chuckles and kisses him on the temple. “You said we can either complete the link or leave it as is?”

“Yes.”

“Can we explore what it is for us?”

Spock loosens his grip a little to look at him, “Will you allow me to show you?”

Jim nods. Spock subdues the trepidation that washes over him. Despite all his mistakes, Jim still believes in him. He warms up his hands for a better contact and splays his fingers on Jim’s psi points.

_Their minds move together, two streams merging into shared consciousness. No mental joining before has been so effortless. It is belonging, giving and receiving unconditional acceptance. Safe. Loved._

_The shimmering thread that connects them is bright as the arch of Milky Way—a siren’s song calling Spock to plunge to the canyons of memories, plains of contemplation, seas of knowledge… Each mind is a unique world. This world is Spock’s home, he is welcome here. They follow the thread to a valley covered in thick fog—a dormant psionic center. The fog engulfs Spock, and he is…_

_…watching himself and Nyota kiss after the mission on Qo’noS. Wistful sadness is burning in his chest, but he wishes them happiness, so he has to turn and walk on…_

_…delivering the final kick to the misaligned injector of the warp core. The power comes back online, and the energy throws him off. He falls down painfully. Happiness. The ship, the crew, and the most cherished one have a chance…_

_…sitting beside the glass door. Weakness is taking over, the world is narrowing with every labored breath. Regretting and not regretting that life comes to an end so soon. Smiling at the thought of his father—what would you say of this solution for a no-win scenario, dad?_

_…seeing himself again, on the other side of the door, even as life is draining from him. My only love. You are crying, you are calling me a friend. I want you to understand. Moving fingers against the glass in a Vulcan caress. Shock of realization on your face, you are devastated—everything we could be…_

_Everything that we are._

_The fog recedes. The link is right in front of them, alive, pulsing, its two roots going deep. It leans towards Spock as if asking to be touched. Jim’s longing is as great as his own, and Spock can barely endure the temptation, tapping the ground cleared from the fog instead. A white ray bursts from that spot and surges up, piercing the sky. I’tsan. A telepathic bridge which will enable Jim to enter his mind._

_It is bliss, to open yourself to the closest being in the universe. Jim’s warm presence is a fresh wind over a mosaic of orderly fields. He sees all that Spock is, just as Spock saw him. Now their mutual knowledge is intimate, and yet they have decades for discoveries and will never tire of exploration. As the link leads them on, the land becomes withered, bare, ash-gray. There is a gaping scar next to a thin, silvery thread, and a dull stub nearby. The area around their thriving link is green and healthy, so another neat stub between its roots is barely visible._

_A rush of sadness and protectiveness from Jim. Images of the past flashing. After the Immeasurable Loss, the psionic background became very weak. A healer helped to close the wound where the link with Mother was. Separation from my half-brother was carried out long before: Sybok was disowned and banished for advocating dangerous ideas. T’Pring, my intended, demanded to be released upon my decision to leave the planet._

_Sweetheart. Jim caresses the burned land. The pain diminishes, new green sprouts rising through the ashes. The link draws Jim closer and closer, it is harder and harder for Spock to restrain himself. He starts to withdraw reluctantly, but Jim clings to him, and his hold is impossible to resist._

_Bonding between t’hylara is irrevocable. You may regret it later. I crave it as much as you do and I can’t stop it. You have to break the meld. Human lifespan is way shorter. You’ll end up like him. I would rather experience what it is to be truly whole than never know it._

_The ultimate union is peace, an equilibrium they both have been striving for and finally found in each other. This is how it meant to be. The link lights up, getting thicker, the third root replacing the stub—Jim’s side grows it as well. Golden glow of a full-fledged bond floods their vision, and the joy of unity is so profound it is too much to bear._

Spock blinks, slightly disoriented. When Jim opens his eyes, they are shining, his smile soft and happy. There is no need for reserve in private—Spock smiles back, reaching out to wipe away the tears from Jim’s cheeks, unaware that his own face is wet until Jim does the same for him.

Their moist hands meet, palm gliding against palm, fingers entwining, blunt nails grazing tendons and veins. Pleasure reverberates through the bond as their hearts beat faster and heat spreads through their bodies. Spock strokes Jim’s knuckles, traces the lines of his palm, watching his pupils dilate at the jolts of their mingled energies. Jim’s lips part in a silent gasp, he rubs the webbing between Spock’s thumb and index finger, and Spock makes no attempt to contain a moan. It is liberating, to express himself freely, without shame or regret. A wave of _oh_ _god, Spock_ slams into him, and he is on his back, Jim all over him.

Between the kisses, Spock tugs off Jim’s t-shirt and runs his hands along the firm muscles of Jim’s torso, brushing gently a big mole on the left side. Jim catches Spock’s hand and presses his lips to the center of the palm, then yanks up Spock’s tunic—Spock rises a little so he could peel it off. His fingers slide through Spock’s chest hair, down his abdomen, and work open the zipper. Pants and underwear pushed down, they wrap around Spock’s length. Spock moans, his mind going blissfully blank, Jim’s touches driving away all coherent thoughts. He is already wet, and more and more lubrication oozes out with each stroke.

“How cool is that,” Jim murmurs, grinning.

His hand travels further, to the base of Spock’s penis and circles two sensitive mounds under it. _I’ve read, they are…_

“Internal,” Spock gasps.

Admiration, lust, myriad of emotions pulse through the bond, the intensity of transference new, much stronger than before, when the bond wasn’t complete. Spock has barely enough control present not to ejaculate. The moves become slower: Jim senses that. They divest each other of the remaining clothes, and at last there is nothing between them, skin to skin. Spock squeezes lightly Jim’s testes, the texture of the scrotum against his palm sending shivers down his spine, and proceeds with caressing Jim’s hard, thick length. Jim groans, pushing into Spock’s fist. Spock spreads his legs and welcomes the weight of Jim’s body. They hold each other’s gazes as their shafts slide together, hips rocking in a steady rhythm, pleasure building, but Spock wishes for more, a full consummation. _Claim me, t’hy’la._

Jim feels Spock’s resolve and gives him a few strokes, then his slick fingers descend along Spock’s perineum and start massaging Spock’s entrance. The noises Spock is making are close to whimpering, breath hitching when one finger slips inside. The sensation is unfamiliar, but very, very gratifying. The finger crooks carefully, coaxing Spock to loosen up. Jim is looking at him intently and is listening to the bond for any signs of discomfort. Another digit joins the first. _So tight._

 _I will adjust_. Spock relaxes his muscles around the fingers, letting them in deeper as he is being stretched. He cries out when they press lightly against his prostate and realizes that he is meeting the thrusts. It’s still not enough. Jim withdraws his fingers and leans forward, kissing Spock’s neck and pushing through the bond an image of Spock riding him. _It will be easier for you._ This makes Spock’s blood burn.

He rolls them over, pins his mate to the bed, and kisses him possessively, roughly. Moaning into the kiss, Jim grinds them together to get more lubrication, then Spock straddles him and lines himself up. As the head of Jim’s penis breaches him, he breathes out and keeps lowering himself. Jim is well-endowed, but Spock’s body accommodates easily to his mate—they were made for this. The sensation of being filled is new; Spock revels in it and in the sultry feedback from the bond. 

Once Jim’s length is fully inside him, he starts undulating his hips, slowly at first and then increasing the pace. His slick penis slides against Jim’s belly as Jim moves inside him, their gazes locked. He can’t help groaning every time Jim hits his prostate.

“Spock,” Jim breathes, eyes dark, almost indigo blue. _Love you so much._

Spock caresses his cheek. _K’diwa_. Be it predestination or a universal constant, they are together. They have each other and they were given another chance. The world was cold and empty without his Jim. He bends down and takes Jim’s mouth as Jim is taking his body. Jim squeezes Spock’s thigh, his other hand slipping between them and stroking Spock with the rhythm of thrusts.

Spock trails his fingers over Jim’s chest, over the thrumming of the Human heartbeat. Against all odds Jim returned to him as he always did, defying even death. _Never lose you again._ With the name of his mate on his lips, Spock tenses and spills over Jim’s fist, stomach, chest. His climax sweeps through the bond, and his toes curl as Jim comes hard inside him.

 

After, they lie under covers, savoring the afterglow, clean and sated—for now.

“It’s amazing, to feel you in my head,” Jim whispers.

“And comforting,” Spock whispers back, and Jim kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> el’mestaya – hand contact  
> k’diwa – beloved


	9. Chapter 9

Meditation on deepest levels was easy as it hasn’t been since… He touched the bond, observing its strength with satisfaction. Now it is dim and tranquil: Jim is sprawled on the bed, snoring quietly, his hair rumpled and mouth slack, his arms and legs sticking out from under the blanket.  _Telsu t’nash-veh, ni vaksurik._ Spock is loath to wake him, but it’s necessary. He reaches out for a warm shoulder and shakes it gently.

“Jim.”

The quiet snoring continues, and another attempt brings no results. Very well. Spock sends a mild mental nudge, _Jim, wake up._

“Ngh, Spock,” Jim grunts, opening his eyes and giving Spock a radiant smile. Spock trails two extended fingers along his jaw.

“My counterpart has just contacted me. The High Council requested his urgent return, so he departs in 1.6 hours.”

 

They set out as soon as Jim got dressed, but the boarding has already started when they arrive to the terminal. Wrapped in his dark brown traveling robes, the Ambassador is waiting for them in a lounge near the boarding area. Knowing that Jim would be saddened by missing an opportunity to see him off, the Elder notified them despite an early hour. Spock is glad that he did.

“Spock!” Jim dashes to the Ambassador. “What happened? Why do you have to go?”

“A pressing matter in internal affairs,” the Ambassador sighs. He looks tired, his countenance sallow, lines on his face seeming deeper.

“Does the colony experience any serious difficulties?” Spock asks at once.

“It will be taken care of,” the Ambassador assures him. “To accomplish that, the Council requires my presence. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you more at the moment.”

“Please do not hesitate to contact us if necessary,” Spock inclines his head.

“And don’t forget to take care of yourself too, alright?” Jim adds.

“Agreed,” the Elder smiles, his dark eyes warm as he gazes at them both. “It is gratifying to know that here my mission is accomplished.”

“Oh yes, it was very, _very_ successful,” Jim grins, glancing at Spock.

“We bonded yesterday,” Spock elaborates reverently, hoping that his tone conveys the extent of gratitude they feel.

Jim has been good friends with the Ambassador since their first meeting, but for Spock the recent weeks held a special meaning. Through interaction with his counterpart he came to understand himself better, and by befriending him Spock learned something about accepting his Human side.  

The Ambassador appears to be at a loss for words. For a moment, tears well up in his eyes, and his composed veneer disappears, revealing a mixture of a great joy and an equally profound wistfulness. Then his expression regains a semblance of equanimity again, but he is still radiating happiness.

 “My congratulations,” the Elder says quietly.

Jim’s grin fades, his brow furrowing in concern as he touches the Ambassador’s elbow. “Spock, is everything okay?”

“Yes,” the Ambassador nods. “Excuse me. I was overwhelmed with emotion.”

“Why are you surprised if the outcome was the same in your universe?”

Spock mentally chastises himself for voicing his confusion. It was neither considerate nor appropriate.

“It took us longer,” his counterpart murmurs.

Observing him, Spock contemplates yet again what it must feel like: carrying on without his _t’hy’la_ , people he cared for gone, and even the consolation of the life he got used to left in a different reality.  Jim expresses the sentiment by circling his arms around the Ambassador. The Elder returns the embrace.

“We wish you could stay,” Jim tells him. “Celebrate with us before the official reception.”

“So do I,” the Ambassador pulls back, smiling at them. “Treasure your time together, my friends. Have many prosperous years.”

 

In the hovercar, Jim dozes off on Spock’s shoulder. They are driving on autopilot, and as the familiar scenery flashes by outside the window, Spock thinks of what lies ahead. It is necessary to formalize their union as soon as possible, better later today, in case they will have to seek refuge on New Vulcan soon. As his spouse, Jim will be granted citizenship immediately… He notices that the car is moving in the wrong direction: instead of heading to Richmond District it took a turn to a secluded part of Presidio.

“Computer, correct the destination.”

“Unable to comply.”

“What’s going on?” Jim stirs, blinking.

“Computer, stop the vehicle,” Spock demands, to no avail. The doors lock, the windows become tinted, and the hovercar increases its speed.

“Shit, let’s try manual override!”

Jim climbs to the driver’s seat and grabs the steering wheel; Spock takes the place next to him, opens the control panel and starts entering overriding sequences. One after another, each code is rejected. Jim curses, finding every switch to the manual control inoperable. Spock disconnects the wiring of the onboard computer to shut it down altogether, but this also proves useless—the indicators on the dashboard go out, and yet it doesn’t help to restore the manual control. Despite all their efforts to smash the windows, the glass resists even Spock’s Vulcan strength. Meanwhile, the hovercar gradually slows down and stops. Spock shares Jim’s fear and anger as the shimmer of a transporter beam envelops them.

They rematerialize on a standard transporter pad in a featureless room. Four security guards point their phasers at them.

“Excellent,” Admiral Armbruster smirks, crossing his arms on his chest.

 _Fuck, they figured out._ Jim squares his shoulders beside Spock.

 _Perhaps, or it may be another attempt to intimidate us_ , Spock reasons, and Jim agrees, deciding to feign ignorance first.

“Admiral, what is the meaning of this?”

“Oh, just a quick procedure,” Armbruster replies matter-of-factly. “Then you both will be returned back, get to your senses in the park, and continue as you were. Obey, and it will be almost painless. Kirk, give me your medscan bracelet.”

Silently, Jim takes off the bracelet and tosses it to Armbruster. The admiral attaches a small device to it and passes it to one of the security guards.

“Good. Now, move.”

They are led through a corridor into a large laboratory. In the center there is a brightly lit oval glass chamber with two chairs inside it. Spock is dismayed to see Ms. Robbins in one of them: restrained, her face ashen, expressionless. A tide of shock comes from the other side of the bond. _Jesus Christ, Eurel!_

“You bastards, let her go!” Jim spits.

“We will, Kirk, after a demonstration of our brand new development. Its clinical trials have been successful so far—since she already told us about Pike’s terminal, a few suggestions are in order, and that’s it.” Armbruster nods to a middle-aged dark-haired man in medical attire who operates a console in front of the chamber. “Proceed, Doctor.”

A low hum of the equipment grows louder. Trembling, Ms. Robbins grips the armrests so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“The death of Christopher Pike was an accident. He was a victim of a terrorist attack,” Armbruster says in a slow and clear manner into a speaker on the console.

“Chris… was a victim… of a terrorist attack,” Ms. Robbins echoes weakly.

“You never suspected otherwise and didn’t investigate.”

“I… I…” she struggles against the lies forced on her. A sheen of sweat is glistening on her forehead. The doctor pushes the lever further, making her choke out, “… didn’t suspect… didn’t… investigate…”

There is nothing worse than watching and being unable to do anything. Spock compartmentalizes the boiling rage that suffuses them both. If they try to overpower the armed guards, it will be 99.7 percent unsuccessful.

“Stop it!” Jim yells, clenching his fists.

“By distracting me you prolong her agony.” Armbruster’s dispassionate tone does not change as he continues, “The memories of your findings do not exist.”

Eurel’s mouth opens in a silent scream. Jim lunges at the guard next to him; another one fires, but Spock grabs him by the arm and sends him hurtling across the room, knocking over the third. The doctor stuns Jim at point blank range—it is the last thing Spock sees before a phaser beam hits him in the back and everything goes dark.

 

He regains consciousness in the chair which was occupied by Ms. Robbins, restrained as she was, his extremities heavy and numb. Jim is beside him in the same state. Spock reaches through the bond: apart from the residual effect of being stunned his mate is unharmed. They exchange looks.

_You okay?_

_Yes, Jim. You?_

_Just a little groggy._

“If you were that anxious to test it yourself, your wish is granted,” Armbruster drawls on the other side of the thick glass wall.

“Where’s Eurel?” Jim snarls.

“Already at home, safe, sound, and blissfully ignorant. Well then, let’s begin.”

The light streaming from the ceiling intensifies. It presses on the eyeballs, invading the mind and absorbing the thoughts, bores through the skin like countless little daggers which stab every muscle and tendon, pierce bones down to the marrow. The humming noise turns into a shrill whine. Spock extends his shields to protect Jim, tightening them to resist the onslaught of the disruptive beam. He manages to block most of Jim’s pain, ignoring his own. Pain is a thing of the mind. It can be controlled.

“Tell me what information you obtained,” Armbruster’s voice booms from all directions, oppressive and insistent.

“How about no, dipshit,” Jim grits through his teeth.

The pain that gets through weakens him, but he fights it with all his might. His recuperating nervous system is especially vulnerable. As the impact gets stronger, his limbs start twitching involuntarily under the growing tension. Spock sends through the bond all the energy he can.

_I am sorry I cannot take it away completely._

_Oh Spock, how can you apologize for this?_

“How about the renowned Vulcan honesty, Mister Spock?” Armbruster sneers. “You are sturdier than us Humans, but your boyfriend here might get very sick again.”

This is not merely a threat. This is an inevitable prospect. At this rate, the decline of Jim’s health is going to be very fast, and even though Armbruster is unlikely to dispose of them, it could maim Jim… Spock clamps down the rising panic.

“You will be court-martialled, Admiral,” he replies coldly.

“Hmm, you both need some more persuasion. I have to admit your resilience is quite impressive: we entered a whole new level.”

It becomes more and more difficult to sustain the extended shields. The pressure of coercion is crushing. Spock’s neural pathways are as if on fire: he registers the first damage. However, the worst part is Jim’s waning vitality—his body is shaking with spasms. Shielding his mind is not nearly enough when the physical exertion is so taxing for him. It is too excruciating to perceive.

_Jim, perhaps…_

_No, don’t you dare. Look, instead of giving me your strength… Can we… play dead?_

_I can attempt to initiate a trance for us both._

Spock spreads his psionic presence further into Jim’s mind, and Jim lets him take control over his body functions without any resistance, a sign of an absolute trust. It is a relaxation trance which is not as deep as the healing one. Thus they will be able to come out of it instantly. Still, under such circumstances maintaining this condition requires a great deal of concentration. Hopefully, it will last long enough to trick their tormentors.

_Focus on the bond. Follow me._

He leads Jim’s consciousness away from the external stimuli, giving him a brief respite from the pain. They observe their bodies with a calm detachment while their heartbeats, respiration, and metabolism are plummeting.

Biomonitors are beeping loudly, indicating their near comatose state. The Admiral and the doctor engage in an agitated debate which, thankfully, results in switching off of the disruptive beam. It is such a relief. There is a sound of the door being open, and the voices approach.

“This neural neutralizer of yours was to subdue them, not kill them,” Armbruster hisses. “So much financing for naught! How am I supposed to explain it to my superiors?”

“Stunning them must have interfered with the course of the procedure, sir,” the doctor counters. His deceptively composed and professional tone is belied by anxiety Spock senses from him. “You should have given them more time to recover.”

Restraints are removed, and the doctor orders the guards to put Jim and Spock onto hovergurneys.

“We have no time! They are to be returned quick enough to avoid any suspicions. Is it possible to repeat the procedure when they are back to normal?”

“It would be risky. You saw yourself that the neutralizer appears not to have the same effect on these subjects.”

“Then we need another way to keep them quiet.”

The hovergurneys take several turns and proceed straight ahead, pushed by two guards. The presence of another two is clear on the sides. The sound of Armbruster and the doctor’s steps are coming from behind, echoing somewhat—apparently, it is the corridor.

_We can use the confined space to our advantage._

_Yeah, it’s the best time to act. Ready?_

Within seconds the trance dissipates. Spock gives a neck pinch to the guard on the right while Jim punches the one on the left. The gurneys stop abruptly; there is only an instant to attack the remaining guards as they are reaching for the phasers. Armbruster opens fire, covering the doctor who fumbles with his communicator. Spock incapacitates the nearest guard—Jim is fighting with the other. Dodging the shots, Spock jumps off the gurney, drags the guard off of Jim and uses him as a shield to approach Armbruster.

Jim picks up a phaser and shoots. The doctor collapses, dropping the communicator. The security division is still talking to him. Backup will be here soon.

Spock tears the weapon out of the Admiral’s hand and releases the guard’s limp body—it falls down in a heap. Dread flickers in Armbruster’s pale gray eyes before Spock knocks him senseless. Doing so instead of a merciful pinch is savage, but Spock feels too raw: this man hurt Jim.

A soothing wave washes over him. _I’m alright, Spock. Come, these fuckers must have recorded their experiments._

Back in the lab, they access the main computer and indeed find footages in the side panel of the interface. Data transfer would require too much time. Jim takes out the hard drive, and they rush to the small transporter room in the end of the corridor.

A security team bursts in when beaming is already launched. Phaser shots have no effect, going right through and hitting the wall behind the transporter pad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Telsu t’nash-veh, ni vaksurik. - My bondmate, so beautiful.


	10. Epilogue

Twilight descended on San Francisco. The city has significantly recovered after Khan’s devastating assault, and its psionic field is much calmer now. Spock has no difficulties with maintaining his shields at a proper level, though. His peace of mind is supported by a deep, tenacious bond which is calling him home—to Jim.

These two days have been turbulent. Quite predictably, their beaming to the gates of the President’s residence in Paris and asking for an unscheduled audience instigated turmoil. An investigation was launched at once, the admiral and the doctor detained shortly after. It was possible to define the exact coordinates of the facility where mind manipulation took place by tracing the location of Jim’s medscan bracelet before its readings were falsified.

Doctor McCoy was close to a fit upon being informed of what had transpired. A thorough check-up revealed that Jim was in a weakened state, but thankfully there was no significant damage. Spock sustained a moderate neurological injury. Having received treatment, he insisted on participating in numerous meetings on Captain’s behalf where it was acceptable. Doctor McCoy made this an official recommendation, despite Jim’s protests.

Approaching the house, Spock senses Jim’s anticipation of his return more and more distinctly, and as soon as the apartment door opens, he finds himself in a tight embrace.

“Finally,” Jim murmurs into Spock’s neck.

“Sorry for the delay,” Spock replies, caressing Jim’s back and inhaling his scent. “A discussion regarding legitimacy of using Khan’s blood for development of a medication lasted much longer than it had been planned.”

“Did they allow it?”

“Eventually, yes, we managed to persuade the joint committee. One sample will be taken, and subsequently the medication will be available to all patients.”

“Good,” Jim grins triumphantly and pecks Spock on the lips. “Come, let’s fix you something for dinner.”

“No need, Doctor McCoy was adamant that I dined during a recess.”

“I should thank Bones for keeping an eye on you.”

“Sometimes it’s easier to ‘humor him’ as you say,” Spock lets out a small sigh.

“And if you two mother hens team up, it’s worse than Kobayashi Maru,” Jim chuckles, sliding his arm around Spock’s waist and steering them to the couch instead.

Putting his cap on the coffee table, Spock notices a paper book, _The Odyssey_ , with a stylus wedged between its pages. He takes off his jacket, and they settle down, curled up together comfortably.

“Besides re-reading the favs, I went to check in on Eurel.”

“How is she?”

“Much better. She’s having one more session with the healer at the Embassy tomorrow, and that’ll be it.”

Raised in a culture where touching is sparse, Spock enjoys Jim’s stroking his chest absent-mindedly. Their bond is suffused with warmth and contentment.

“I should be able to visit her by the end of the week. Decryption of data from the secure channel of the admirals is almost finished.”

Jim stops his ministrations and looks at Spock intently.

“Did Marcus have any more accomplices?”

“It seems like these three were his main supporters,” Spock shakes his head. “At one point they were considering a new eugenics program to create soldiers for the future expansion, with Khan and his people at the forefront. Khan’s crew held hostage guaranteed his obedience. However, the prospect of another eugenics war was quite beneficial for him. Khan eliminated the bigger part of Marcus’s opponents and was to carry out a provocation on Qo’noS upon a signal.”

“Right. When we questioned Khan, it did seem strange to me that he had used such a cumbersome method to kill Marcus, openly attacking HQ and all. He’s an excellent assassin, it would have been more discreet to track Marcus down alone.”

“Yes. Perhaps it was one of the reasons Marcus had serious concerns that Khan would try to usurp power, so ultimately he decided to dispose of Khan and his crew.”

“And start the war anyway. That’s why he allowed the transwarp beaming device to be found. Played me like a fiddle,” Jim lowers his eyes.

Shame that comes from him is so bitter Spock can taste it. He squeezes Jim’s shoulder, sending a powerful wave of love and reassurance.

“But you stopped until it was too late.”

“Thanks to you.”

“You listened. I didn’t when I was in your place a year ago.”

Jim meets Spock’s gaze at last.

“Alright, enough with self-castigation,” he says quietly and trails his two extended fingers along the back of Spock’s hand.

His vibrant energy runs through Spock’s synapses, making Spock’s heart beat faster and spreading as warmth further down. Spock leans forward and captures Jim’s lips—Jim grunts in approval, deepening the kiss and climbing onto his lap to straddle him. Spock’s hands cup his buttocks of their own accord.

“I’ve missed you while you were away,” Jim whispers against Spock’s lips.

Images flicker through the bond, of Jim in the shower, slick fingers pushing past the tight rim of his entrance and moving inside, scissoring, preparing; a determination not to gratify himself, to wait until his husband is home. _I want you to claim me too._

Spock becomes erect in an instant, his mate’s call evoking the ancient drive: their bond is still settling, they should be spending most of their time side by side. His hands tremble slightly as he pulls off Jim’s loose flannel shirt and undoes the fly of Jim’s jeans. Jim shimmies out of them awkwardly, with equal impatience, and throws his head back in laughter when Spock all but tears off his underwear.

_The pon farr thing’s gotta be sooo much fun._

_Do not joke about it._

“Why, Mr. Spock, you’re really happy to see me,” Jim croons, palming a bulge in Spock’s pants.

Spock outlines Jim’s knuckles with the lightest of touches—goosebumps form on Jim’s skin, his side of the bond flaring up. He crushes their mouths together, fumbling with the fastening of Spock’s trousers. Spock groans as Jim’s hand pushes into his briefs, wraps around his engorged penis and takes it out. They break the kiss, panting, and Spock strokes himself while Jim watches, his tongue swiping across his lips.

Fingers covered with an ample amount of lubrication, Spock reaches behind Jim’s back and drags them down the cleft between his buttocks to his entrance. It is tight, but pliant from the previous preparation. Jim keens when Spock inserts two fingers and starts spreading him open. Lust and excitement his mate radiates shoot directly to Spock’s groin, and he leaks even more profusely. Jim reacts to every move, writhing and moaning, his hard length pressing against Spock’s, and yet Spock discerns a trace of tension in the background. He pauses, which elicits a protesting whine from Jim.

_Why did you stop?_

_Is there something wrong?_

_What? Oh…_ Jim senses what Spock is concerned about. _It’s just… I haven’t bottomed before either. Never felt safe enough with anyone._

“Fuck me,” he purrs into Spock’s ear, his desire and trust pouring through the bond.

Spock latches on Jim’s neck with a kiss that will most likely leave a bruise. He removes his fingers, squeezing Jim’s buttock with the other hand. The need to join is pulsing between them. Jim rises on his knees to position himself, then guides Spock’s erection to his opening and begins to descend. Spock doesn’t hold back a moan when the heat of his mate’s body engulfs him. Jim rolls his hips tentatively, savoring and getting used to the stretch; they find their rhythm easily, naturally, as if they shared this not once, but countless times. Jim gasps, clinging to Spock’s shoulders, as Spock hits and hits the right spot.

“Ah… fuck… fuck… Spock…”

Spock kisses Jim’s chest and arched neck, taking him in hand and stroking him in time. He is tight and beautiful and pure pleasure. He is clenching around Spock and is pushing into Spock’s fist. He is Spock’s, and Spock is his. _Jim. Jim._ Both crave more, so they move harder, faster, kissing and moaning, skin slapping against skin, the couch creaking under them. The bond is flourishing, nurtured by the power of their emotions. Physical and mental sensations intertwine—it is still new and just too intense.

Neither remembers who comes first. They reach the peak and ride it through, until the last aftershock, until they are too sated and too sluggish to budge. For a while, they stay like this, breathing and holding each other.

Jim exhales and presses his damp forehead against Spock’s. Spock sighs blissfully, slides his palm down Jim’s shin and tugs off his sock.

“I ruined your undershirt,” Jim smirks.

“It is of no consequence,” Spock assures him.

Feeling that Jim has become oversensitive and is getting uncomfortable, Spock lifts him up gently and pulls out.

“We are so doing it, _countless times_ ,” Jim says, hissing with the burn and landing back onto Spock’s lap. “I adore your dick.”

“Only this part of my anatomy?” Spock deadpans.

He peels off his soiled undershirt and tosses it on the floor. The scattered clothes will be dealt with later.

“Well, not only,” Jim laughs in between lazy kisses. “Give me a few minutes, and then I’ll worship all your body.”

“In that case we should relocate,” Spock grasps him by the posterior and presses him closer to himself. Jim wraps his legs around Spock’s hips, and Spock carries him to the bed.

 

In the morning, while Jim is still sleeping, Spock dons his home robe and combs his hair, checking in the mirror that he looks presentable. One more conversation is due, and there is no reason to postpone it. In Uzh-ShiKahr, a workday has just finished.

If Sarek is surprised by a call without notice, his ever composed expression remains unchanged, of course.

“ _Spohkh_.”

Spock curbs an urge to squirm under his piercing gaze.

“ _Osa-mekh_,” he inclines his head and continues without preamble. “ _Vutau na’lof var-tor t’telan t’nash-veh k’James Kirk. Nam-tor etek t’hylara_.”

Now his father does allow emotion to reflect on his face.

“Your mother would say, that’s just like you, Spock,” he quirks a perplexed eyebrow. “ _Dom, na’shikha’uh lu lasha dular na’hotor-van-kal. Dungi dator kanok-vei if bolayatik_. And pray tell me everything from the very beginning.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Osa-mekh. Vutau na’lof var-tor t’telan t’nash-veh k’James Kirk. Nam-tor etek t’hylara. - Father. I am calling in order to inform you of my bonding with James Kirk. We are t’hylara.
> 
> Dom, na’shikha’uh lu lasha dular na’hotor-van-kal. Dungi dator kanok-vei if bolayatik. - So, advise me on the time of your arrival for the formal ceremony. I shall make the necessary arrangements.
> 
> Translations into Vulcan were made with the help of information from Vulcan Language Dictionary, Vulcan Language Institute and korsaya.org. A huge respect and gratitude to the founders and developers of these wonderful resources!
> 
> ***  
> Thank you for reading!  
> Finally, my first story ever is finished. It took a year and a month to write it. 2015 was tough, and I'm proud that I didn't abandon this fic.


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